IF I were used to writing verse,
 And had a Muse not so perverse,
 But prompt at Fancy’s call to spring
 And Carol like a bird in Spring;
 Or like a Bee, in summer time,
 That hums about a bed of thyme,
 And gathers honey and delights
 From ev’ry blossom where it ‘lights;
 If I, alas! had such a Muse,
 To touch the Reader or amuse,
 And breathe the true poetic vein,
 This page should not be fill’d in vain!
 But ah! the power was never mine
 To dig for gems in Fancy’s mine:
 Or wander over land and main
 To seek the Fairies’ old domain—
 To watch Apollo while he climbs
 His throne in oriental climes;
 Or mark the “gradual dusky veil”
 Drawn over Tempé’s tuneful vale,
 In classic lays remembered long—
 Such flights to bolder wings belong;
 To Bards who on that glorious height,
 Of sun and song, Parnassus hight,
 Partake the fire divine that burns,       }
 In Milton, Pope, and Scottish Burns,  }
 Who sang his native braes and burns. }
For me a novice strange and new,
 Who ne’er such inspiration knew,
 But weave a verse with travail sore,
 Ordain’d to creep and not to soar,
 A few poor lines alone I write,
 Fulfilling thus a friendly rite,
 Not meant to meet the Critic’s eye,
 For oh! to hope from such as I,
 For anything that’s fit to read,
 Were trusting to a broken reed!

1st of April, 1840. E. M. G.

SKIPPING. A MYSTERY.

LITTLE Children skip,
 The rope so gaily gripping,
 Tom and Harry,
 Jane and Mary,
 Kate, Diana,
 Susan, Anna,
 All are fond of skipping!
The Grasshoppers all skip,
 The early dew-drop sipping,
 Under, over,
 Bent and clover,
 Daisy, sorrel,
 Without quarrel,
 All are fond of skipping!
The tiny Fairies skip,
 At midnight softly tripping;
 Puck and Peri,
 Never weary,
 With an antic,
 Quite romantic,
 All are fond of skipping!
The little Boats they skip,
 Beside the heavy Shipping,
 While the squalling
 Winds are calling,
 Falling, rising,
 Rising, falling,
 All are fond of skipping!
The pale Diana skips,
 The silver billows tipping,
 With a dancing
 Lustre glancing
 To the motion
 Of the ocean—
 All are fond of skipping!
The little Flounders skip,
 When they feel the dripping;
 Scorching, frying,
 Jumping, trying
 If there is not
 Any shying,
 All are fond of skipping!
The very Dogs they skip,
 While threatened with a whipping,
 Wheeling, prancing,
 Learning dancing,
 To a measure,
 What a pleasure!
 All are fond of skipping!
The little Fleas they skip,
 And nightly come a nipping,
 Lord and Lady,
 Jude and Thady,
 In the night
 So dark and shady—
 All are fond of skipping!
The Autumn Leaves they skip;
 When blasts the trees are stripping;
 Bounding, whirling,
 Sweeping, twirling,
 And in wanton
 Mazes curling,
 All are fond of skipping!
The Apparitions skip,
 Some mortal grievance ripping,
 Thorough many
 A crack and cranny,
 And the keyhole
 Good as any—
 Are all fond of skipping!
But oh! how Readers skip,
 In heavy volumes dipping!
 * * * * * and * * * * *
 * * * * and * * * * *
 * * * and * * * * *
 * * * * * * * *
 All are fond of skipping!

A BUTCHER.

WHOE’ER has gone thro’ London Street,
 Has seen a Butcher gazing at his meat,
 And how he keeps
 Gloating upon a sheep’s
 Or bullock’s personals, as if his own;
 How he admires his halves,
 And quarters—and his calves,
 As if in truth upon his own legs grown;—
 His fat! his suet!
 His kidneys peeping elegantly thro’ it!
 His thick flank!
 And his thin!
 His shank!
 His shin!
 Skin of his skin, and bone too of his bone!
With what an air
 He stands aloof, across the thoroughfare
 Gazing—and will not let a body by,
 Tho’ buy! buy! buy! be constantly his cry;
 Meanwhile his arms a-kimbo, and a pair
 Of Rhodian legs, he revels in a stare
 At his Joint Stock—for one may call it so,
 Howbeit without a Co.
 The dotage of self-love was never fonder
 Than he of his brute bodies all a-row.
Narcissus in the wave did never ponder,
 With love so strong,
 On his “portrait charmant,”
 As our vain butcher on his carcass yonder.
Look at his sleek round skull!
 How bright his cheek, how rubicund his nose is!
 His visage seems to be
 Ripe for beef-tea;
 Of brutal juices the whole man is full—
 In fact, fulfilling the metempsychosis,
 The Butcher is already half a Bull.

A PUBLIC DINNER.

“Sit down and fall to, said the Barmecide.”—Arabian Nights.
AT seven you just nick it,
 Give card—get wine ticket;
 Walk round through the Babel,
 From table to table,
 To find—a hard matter—
 Your name in a platter;
 Your wish was to sit by
 Your friend Mr. Whitby,
 But Steward’s assistance
 Has placed you at distance,
 And, thanks to arrangers,
 You sit among strangers;
 But too late for mending;
 Twelve sticks come attending
 A stick of a Chairman,
 A little dark spare man,
 With bald shining nob,
 ‘Mid Committee swell-mob;
 In short, a short figure,
 You thought the Duke bigger;
 Then silence is wanted,
 Non Nobis is chanted;
 Then Chairman reads letter,
 The Duke’s a regretter,
 A promise to break it,
 But chair he can’t take it;
 Is grieved to be from us,
 But sends friend Sir Thomas,
And what is far better,
 A cheque in the letter.
 Hear! hear! and a clatter,
 And there ends the matter.
Now soups come and fish in,
 And C—— brings a dish in;
 Then rages the battle,
 Knives clatter, forks rattle,
 Steel forks with black handles,
 Under fifty wax candles;
 Your soup-plate is soon full,
 You sip just a spoonful.
 Mr. Roe will be grateful
 To send him a plateful;
 And then comes the waiter,
 “Must trouble for tater;”
 And then you drink wine off
 With somebody—nine off;
 Bucellas made handy,
 With Cape and bad Brandy,
 Or East India Sherry,
 That’s very hot—very.
 You help Mr. Myrtle,
 Then find your mock-turtle
 Went off, while you lingered,
 With waiter light-fingered.
 To make up for gammon,
 You order some salmon,
 Which comes to your fauces
 With boats without sauces.
 You then make a cut on
 Some Lamb big as Mutton;
 And ask for some grass too,
 But that you must pass too;
 It served the first twenty,
 But toast there is plenty.
 Then, while lamb gets coldish,
 A goose that is oldish—
 At carving not clever—
 You’re begged to dissever,
 And when you thus treat it,
 Find no one will eat it.
 So, hungry as glutton,
 You turn to your mutton,
 But—no sight for laughter—
 The soup it’s gone after.
 Mr. Green then is very
 Disposed to take Sherry,
 And then Mr. Nappy
 Will feel very happy;
 And then Mr. Conner
 Requests the same honour;
 Mr. Clarke, when at leisure,
 Will really feel pleasure;
 Then waiter leans over
 To take off a cover
 From fowls which all beg of,
 A wing or a leg of;
 And while they all peck bone,
 You take to a neck bone,
 But even your hunger
 Declares for a younger.
 A fresh plate you call for,
 But vainly you bawl for:
 Now taste disapproves it,
 No waiter removes it.
 Still hope, newly budding,
 Relies on a pudding;
 But critics each minute
 Set fancy agin it—
 “That’s queer Vermicelli.”
 “I say, Vizetelly,
 There’s glue in that jelly.”
 “Tarts bad altogether;
 That crust’s made of leather.”
 “Some custard, friend Vesey?”
 “No—batter made easy.”
 “Some cheese, Mr. Foster?”
 “—Don’t like single Glo’ster.”
 Meanwhile, to top table,
 Like fox in the fable,
 You see silver dishes,
 With those little fishes,
 The whitebait delicious
 Borne past you officious;
 And hear rather plainish
 A sound that’s champaignish,
 And glimpse certain bottles
 Made long in the throttles:
 And sniff—very pleasant!
 Grouse, partridge, and pheasant,
 And see mounds of ices
 For patrons and vices,
 Pine-apple, and bunches
 Of grapes for sweet munches,
 And fruits of all virtue
 That really desert you.
 You’ve nuts, but not crack ones,
 Half empty, and black ones;
 With oranges sallow—
 They can’t be called yellow—
 Some pippins well wrinkled,
 And plums almond sprinkled,
 Some rout cakes, and so on,
 Then with business to go on;
 Long speeches are stutter’d,
 And toasts are well buttered,
 While dames in the gallery,
 All dressed in fallallery,
 Look on at the mummery:
 And listen to flummery.
 Hip, hip! and huzzaing,
 And singing and saying,
 Glees, catches, orations,
 And lists of donations.
 Hush! a song, Mr. Tinney—
 “Mr. Benbow, one guinea;
 Mr. Frederick Manual,
 One guinea—and annual.”
 Song—Jockey and Jenny—
 “Mr. Markham one guinea.”
 “Have you all filled your glasses?”
 Here’s a health to good lasses.
 The subscription still skinny—
 “Mr. Franklin—one guinea.”
 Franklin looks like a ninny;
 “Mr. Boreham, one guinea—
 Mr. Blogg, Mr. Finney,
 Mr. Tempest—one guinea,
 Mr. Merrington—twenty,”
 Rough music, in plenty.
 Away toddles Chairman,
 The little dark spare man,
 Not sorry at ending,
 With white sticks attending,
 And some vain Tomnoddy
 Votes in his own body
 To fill the void seat up,
 And get on his feet up,
 To say, with voice squeaking,
 “Unaccustomed to speaking,”
 Which sends you off seeking
 Your hat, number thirty—
 No coach—very dirty.
 So, hungry and fevered,
 Wet-footed, spoilt beavered,
 Eyes aching in socket,
 Ten pounds out of pocket,
 To Brook-street the Upper
 You haste home to supper.

A CHARITY SERMON.

“‘I would have walked many a mile to have communed with you; and, believe me, I will shortly pay thee another visit; but my friends, I fancy, wonder at my stay; so let me have the money immediately.’ Trulliber then put on a stern look, and cried out, ‘Thou dost not intend to rob me?’

* * * * * *

‘I would have thee know, friend,’ addressing himself to Adams, ‘I shall not learn my duty from such as thee. I know what charity is, better than to give to vagabonds.’”—Joseph Andrews.

I’m an extremely charitable man—no collar and long hair, though a little carrotty;
 Demure, half-inclined to the unknown tongues, but I never gain’d anything by Charity.
I got a little boy into the Foundling, but his unfortunate mother was traced and baited,
 And the overseers found her out—and she found me out—and the child was affiliated.
 Oh, Charity will come home to roost—
 Like curses and chickens is Charity.
I once, near Whitehall’s very old wall, when ballads danced over the whole of it,
 Put a bad five-shilling-piece into a beggar’s hat, but the old hat had got a hole in it;
 And a little boy caught it in his little hat, and an officer’s eye seem’d to care for it,
 As my bad crown piece went through his bad crown piece, and they took me up to Queen’s Square for it.
 Oh, Charity, &c.
I let my very old (condemn’d) old house to a man, at a rent that was shockingly low,
 So I found a roof for his ten motherless babes—all defunct and fatherless now;
 For the plaguy one-sided party wall fell in, so did the roof, on son and daughter,
 And twelve jurymen sat on eleven bodies, and brought in a very personal verdict of Manslaughter.
 Oh, Charity, &c.
I pick’d up a young well-dress’d gentleman, who had fallen in a fit in St. Martin’s Court,
 And charitably offer’d to see him home—for charity always seem’d to be my forte,
 And I’ve had presents for seeing fallen gentlemen home, but this was a very unlucky job—
 Do you know, he got my watch—my purse—and my handkerchief—for it was one of the swell mob.
 Oh, Charity, &c.
Being four miles from Town, I stopt a horse that had run away with a man, when it seem’d that they must be dash’d to pieces,
 Though several kind people were following him with all their might—but such following a horse his speed increases;
 I held the horse while he went to recruit his strength; and I meant to ride it home, of course;
 But the crowd came up and took me up—for it turn’d out the man had run away with the horse.
 Oh, Charity, &c.
I watch’d last month all the drovers and drivers about the suburbs, for it’s a positive fact,
 That I think the utmost penalty ought always to be enforced against everybody under Mr. Martin’s act;
 But I couldn’t catch one hit over the horns, or over the shins, or on the ears, or over the head;
 And I caught a rheumatism from early wet hours, and got five weeks of ten swell’d fingers in bed.
 Oh, Charity, &c.
Well, I’ve utterly done with Charity, though I used so to preach about its finest fount;
 Charity may do for some that are more lucky, but I can’t turn it to any account—
 It goes so the very reverse way—even if one chirrups it up with a dust of piety;
 That henceforth let it be understood, I take my name entirely out of the List of Subscribers to the Humane Society.
 Oh, Charity, &c.

THE CHINA MENDER.

GOOD morning, Mr. What-d’ye-call! Well! here’s another pretty job!
 Lord help my Lady!—what a smash!—if you had only heard her sob!
 It was all through Mr. Lambert: but for certain he was winey,
 To think for to go to sit down on a table full of Chiney.
 “Deuce take your stupid head!” says my Lady to his very face;
 But politeness, you know, is nothing, when there’s Chiney in the case;
 And if ever a woman was fond of Chiney to a passion
 It’s my mistress, and all sorts of it, whether new or old fashion.
Her brother’s a sea-captain, and brings her home shiploads—
 Such bonzes, and such dragons, and nasty, squatting things like toads;
 And great nidnoddin’ mandarins, with palsies in the head:
 I declare I’ve often dreamt of them, and had nightmares in my bed.
 But the frightfuller they are—lawk! she loves them all the better:
 She’d have Old Nick himself made of Chiney if they’d let her.
Lawk-a-mercy! break her Chiney, and it’s breaking her very heart;
 If I touch’d it, she would very soon say, “Mary, we must part.”
 To be sure she is unlucky: only Friday comes Master Randall,
 And breaks a broken spout, and fresh chips a tea-cup handle:
 He’s a dear, sweet little child, but he will so finger and touch,
 And that’s why my Lady doesn’t take to children much.
 Well! there’s stupid Mr. Lambert, with his two great coat flaps,
 Must go and sit down on the Dresden shepherdesses’ laps,
 As if there was no such things as rosewood chairs in the room;
 I couldn’t have made a greater sweep with the handle of the broom.
 Mercy on us! how my mistress began to rave and tear!
 Well! after all, there’s nothing like good ironstone ware for wear.
 If ever I marry, that’s flat, I’m sure it won’t be John Dockery,—
 I should be a wretched woman in a shop full of crockery.
 I should never like to wipe it, though I love to be neat and tidy,
 And afraid of mad bulls on market-days every Monday and Friday.
 I’m very much mistook if Mr. Lambert’s will be a catch;
 The breaking the Chiney will be the breaking-off of his own match.
 Missis wouldn’t have an angel, if he was careless about Chiney;
 She never forgives a chip, if it’s ever so small and tiny.
 Lawk! I never saw a man in all my life in such a taking;
 I could find in my heart to pity him for all his mischief-making.
 To see him stand a-hammering and stammering, like a zany;
 But what signifies apologies, if they won’t mend old Chaney!
 If he sent her up whole crates full, from Wedgwood’s and Mr. Spode’s,
 He couldn’t make amends for the crack’d mandarins and smash’d toads.
 Well! every one has their tastes, but, for my part, my own self,
 I’d rather have the figures on my poor dear grandmother’s old shelf:
 A nice pea-green poll-parrot, and two reapers with brown ears of corns,
 And a shepherd with a crook after a lamb with two gilt horns,
 And such a Jemmy Jessamy in top boots and sky-blue vest,
 And a frill and flower’d waistcoat, with a fine bowpot at the breast.
 God help her, poor old soul! I shall come into ’em at her death,
 Though she’s a hearty woman for her years, except her shortness of breath.
 Well! you think the things will mend—if they won’t, Lord mend us all!
 My Lady will go in fits, and Mr. Lambert won’t need to call:
 I’ll be bound in any money, if I had a guinea to give,
 He won’t sit down again on Chiney the longest day he has to live.
 Poor soul! I only hope it won’t forbid his bans of marriage,
 Or he’d better have sat behind on the spikes of my Lady’s carriage.
 But you’ll join ’em all of course, and stand poor Mr. Lambert’s friend;
 I’ll look in twice a day, just to see, like, how they mend.
 To be sure it is a sight that might draw tears from dogs and cats;
 Here’s this pretty little pagoda, now, has lost four of its cocked hats:
 Be particular with the pagoda: and then here’s this pretty bowl—
 The Chinese Prince is making love to nothing because of this hole;
 And here’s another Chinese man, with a face just like a doll—
 Do stick his pigtail on again, and just mend his parasol.
 But I needn’t tell you what to do; only do it out of hand,
 And charge whatever you like to charge—my Lady won’t make a stand.
 Well! good morning, Mr. What-d’ye-call; for it’s time our gossip ended:
 And you know the proverb, the less as is said, the sooner the Chiney’s mended.

ON A PICTURE OF HERO AND LEANDER.

WHY, Lover, why
 Such a water rover?
 Would she love thee more
 For coming half seas over?
Why, Lady, why,
 So in love with dipping?
 Must a lad of Greece
 Come all over dripping?
Why, Cupid, why
 Make the passage brighter?
 Were not any boat
 Better than a lighter?
Why, Madam, why
 So intrusive standing?
 Must thou be on the stair
 When he’s on the landing?

MISS FANNY’S FAREWELL FLOWERS.

Not “the posie of a ring.”
 Shakespeare (all but the not).
I CAME to town a happy man:
 I need not now dissemble
 Why I return so sad at heart—
 It’s all through Fanny Kemble:
 Oh! when she threw her flowers away,
 What urged the tragic slut on
 To weave in such a wreath as that,
 Ah me! a bachelor’s button.
None fought so hard, none fought so well,
 As I to gain some token—
 When all the pit rose up in arms,
 And heads and hearts were broken;
 “Huzza!” said I, “I’ll have a flower
 As sure as my name’s Dutton;”—
I made a snatch—I got a catch—
 By Jove! a bachelor’s button!
I’ve lost my watch—my hat is smashed—
 My clothes declare the racket;
 I went there in a full dress coat,
 And came home in a jacket.
 My nose is swell’d—my eye is black—
 My lip I’ve got a cut on!
 Odds buds!—and what a bud to get—
 The deuce! a bachelor’s button!
My chest’s in pain; I really fear
 I’ve somewhat hurt my bellows,
 By pokes and punches in the ribs
 From those herb-strewing fellows.
 I miss two teeth in my front row;
 My corn has had a fut on;
 And all this pain I’ve had to gain
 This cursed bachelor’s button.
Had I but won a rose—a bud—
 A pansy—or a daisy—
 A periwinkle—anything—
 But this—it drives me crazy!
 My very sherry tastes like squills,
 I can’t enjoy my mutton;
 And when I sleep I dream of it—
 Still—still——a bachelor’s button
My place is book’d per coach to-night,
 But oh, my spirit trembles
 To think how country friends will ask
 Of Knowleses and of Kembles.
 If they should breathe about the wreath,
 When I go back to Sutton,
 I shall not dare to show my share,
 That all!—a bachelor’s button!
My luck in life was never good,
 But this my fate will burden:
 I ne’er shall like my farming more,—
 I know I shan’t the Garden.
 The turnips all may have the fly,
 The wheat may have the smut on,
 I care not,—I’ve a blight at heart,—
 Ah me!—a bachelor’s button!

THE STAGE-STRUCK HERO.

‘It must be. So Plato?—Thou reasonest?—Well.”
 —School Cato.
IT’S very hard! oh, Dick, my boy,
 It’s very hard one can’t enjoy
 A little private spouting;
 But sure as Lear or Hamlet lives,
 Up comes our master, bounce! and gives
 The tragic muse a routing!
Ay, there he comes again! be quick!
 And hide the book—a playbook, Dick,
 He must not set his eyes on!
 It’s very hard, the churlish elf
 Will never let one stab one’s self
 Or take a bowl of p’ison!
It’s very hard, but when I want
 To die—as Cato did—I can’t,
 Or go non compos mentis—
 But up he comes, all fire and flame;—
 No doubt he’d do the very same
 With Kemble for a ‘prentice!
Oh, Dick! Oh, Dick! it was not so
 Some half a dozen years ago!
 Melpomene was no sneaker,
 When, under Reverend Mister Poole,
 Each little boy at Enfield School
 Became an Enfield speaker!
No cruel master-tailor’s cane
 Then thwarted the theatric vein;
The tragic soil had tillage.
 O dear dramatic days gone by!
 You, Dick, were Richard then—and I
 Play’d Hamlet to the village,
Or, as Macbeth, the dagger clutch’d,
 Till all the servant-maids were touch’d—
 Macbeth, I think, my pet is;
 Lord, how we spouted Shakespeare’s works—
 Dick, we had twenty little Burkes,
 And fifty Master Betties!
Why, there was Julius Cæsar Dunn,
 And Norval, Sandy Philip,—one
 Of Elocution’s champions—
 Genteelly taught by his mamma
 To say, not father, but papa,
 Kept sheep upon the Grampians!
Coriolanus Crumpe—and Fig
 In Brutus, with brown-paper wig,
 And Huggins great in Cato;
 Only he broke so often off,
 To have a fit of whooping-cough,
 While reasoning with Plato.
And Zangra too,—but I shall weep,
 If longer on this theme I keep,
 And let remembrance loose, Dick;
 Now forced to act—it’s very hard—
 “Measure for Measure” with a yard—
 You Richard, with a goose, Dick!
Zounds! Dick, it’s very odd our dads
 Should send us there when we were lads
 To learn to talk like Tullies;
 And now, if one should just break out,
 Perchance, into a little spout,
 A stick about the skull is.
Why should stage-learning form a part
 Of schooling for the tailor’s art?
 Alas! dramatic notes, Dick,
 So well record the sad mistake
 Of him who tried at once to make
 Both Romeo and Coates, Dick!

YE TOURISTS AND TRAVELLERS.

YE Tourists and Travellers, bound to the Rhine,
 Provided with passport, that requisite docket,
 First listen to one little whisper of mine—
 Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
Don’t wash or be shaved—go like hairy wild men,
 Play dominoes, smoke, wear a cap, and smock-frock it,
 But if you speak English, or look it, why then—
 Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
You’ll sleep at great inns, in the smallest of beds,
 Find charges as apt to mount up as a rocket,
 With thirty per cent. as a tax on your heads,—
 Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
You’ll see old Cologne,—not the sweetest of towns,—
 Wherever you follow your nose you will shock it;
 And you’ll pay your three dollars to look at three crowns,—
 Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
You’ll count seven Mountains, and see Roland’s Eck,
 Hear legends veracious as any by Crockett;
 But oh! to the tone of romance what a check,—
 Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
Old Castles you’ll see on the vine-covered hill,—
 Fine ruins to rivet the eye in its socket—
 Once haunts of Baronial Banditti, and still—
 Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
You’ll stop at Coblenz, with its beautiful views,
 But make no long stay with your money to stock it,
Where Jews are all Germans, and Germans all Jews,—
 Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!—
A Fortress you’ll see, which, as people report,
 Can never be captured, save famine should block it—
 Ascend Ehrenbreitstein—but that’s not their forte,—
 Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
You’ll see an old man who’ll let off an old gun,
 And Lurley, with her hurly-burly, will mock it;
 But think that the words of the echo thus run,—
 Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
You’ll gaze on the Rheingau, the soil of the Vine!
 Of course you will freely Moselle it and Hock it—
 P’raps purchase some pieces of Humbugheim wine—
 Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
Perchance you will take a frisk off to the Baths—
 Where some to their heads hold a pistol and cock it;
 But still mind the warning, wherever your paths—
 Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
And Friendships you’ll swear, most eternal of pacts,
 Change rings, and give hair to be put in a locket;
 But still, in the most sentimental of acts—
 Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
In short, if you visit that stream or its shore,
 Still keep at your elbow one caution to knock it,
 And where Schinderhannes was Robber of yore,—
 Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!

RURAL FELICITY.

WELL, the country’s a pleasant place, sure enough, for people that’s country born,
 And useful, no doubt, in a natural way, for growing our grass and our corn.
It was kindly meant of my cousin Giles, to write and invite me down.
 Tho’ as yet all I’ve seen of a pastoral life only makes me more partial to town.
At first I thought I was really come down into all sorts of rural bliss,
 For Porkington Place, with its cows and its pigs, and its poultry, looks not much amiss;
 There’s something about a dairy farm, with its different kinds of live stock,
 That puts one in mind of Paradise, and Adam, and his innocent flock;
 But somehow the good old Elysium fields have not been well handed down,
 And as yet I have found no fields to prefer to dear Leicester Fields up in town.
To be sure it is pleasant to walk in the meads, and so I should like for miles,
 If it wasn’t for clodpoles of carpenters that put up such crooked stiles;
 For the bars jut out, and you must jut out, till you’re almost broken in two,
 If you clamber you’re certain sure of a fall, and you stick if you try to creep through.
 Of course, in the end, one learns how to climb without constant tumbles-down,
 But still as to walking so stylishly, it’s pleasanter done about town.
 There’s a way, I know, to avoid the stiles, and that’s by a walk in a lane,
 And I did find a very nice shady one, but I never dared go again;
 For who should I meet but a rampaging bull, that wouldn’t be kept in the pound,
 A trying to toss the whole world at once, by sticking his horns in the ground?
 And that, by-the-bye, is another thing, that pulls rural pleasures down,
 Ev’ry day in the country is cattle-day, and there’s only two up in town.
Then I’ve rose with the sun, to go brushing away at the first early pearly dew,
 And to meet Aurory, or whatever’s her name, and I always got wetted through;
 My shoes are like sops, and I caught a bad cold, and a nice draggle-tail to my gown,
 That’s not the way that we bathe our feet, or wear our pearls, up in town!
 As for picking flowers, I have tried at a hedge, sweet eglantine roses to snatch,
 But, mercy on us! how nettles will sting, and how the long brambles do scratch;
 Beside hitching my hat on a nasty thorn that tore all the bows from the crown,
 One may walk long enough without hats branching off, or losing one’s bows about town.
 But worse than that, in a long rural walk, suppose that it blows up for rain,
 And all at once you discover yourself in a real St. Swithin’s Lane;
 And while you’re running all duck’d and drown’d, and pelted with sixpenny drops,
 “Fine weather,” you hear the farmers say; “a nice growing shower for the crops!”
 But who’s to crop me another new hat, or grow me another new gown?
 For you can’t take a shilling fare with a plough as you do with the hackneys in town.
Then my nevys too, they must drag me off to go with them gathering nuts,
 And we always set out by the longest way and return by the shortest cuts.
 Short cuts, indeed! But it’s nuts to them, to get a poor lustyish aunt
 To scramble through gaps, or jump over a ditch, when they’re morally certain she can’t,—
 For whenever I get in some awkward scrape, and it’s almost daily the case,
 Tho’ they don’t laugh out, the mischievous brats, I see the “hooray!” in their face.
 There’s the other day, for my sight is short, and I saw what was green beyond,
 And thought it was all terry firmer and grass, till I walked in the duckweed pond:
 Or perhaps when I’ve pully-hauled up a bank they see me come launching down,
 As none but a stout London female can do as is come a first time out of town.
 Then how sweet, some say, on a mossy bank a verdurous seat to find,
 But for my part I always found it a joy that brought a repentance behind;
 For the juicy grass with its nasty green has stained a whole breadth of my gown—
 And when gowns are dyed, I needn’t say, it’s much better done up in town.
 As for country fare, the first morning I came I heard such a shrill piece of work!
 And ever since—and it’s ten days ago—we’ve lived upon nothing but pork;
 One Sunday except, and then I turn’d sick, a plague take all countrified cooks!
 Why didn’t they tell me, before I had dined, they made pigeon pies of the rooks?
 Then the gooseberry wine, tho’ it’s pleasant when up, it doesn’t agree when it’s down,
 But it served me right, like a gooseberry, fool to look for champagne out of town?
 To be sure cousin G. meant it all for the best when he started this pastoral plan,
 And his wife is a worthy domestical soul and she teaches me all that she can,
 Such as making of cheese, and curing of hams, but I’m sure that I never shall learn,
 And I’ve fetch’d more back-ache than butter as yet by chumping away at the churn;
 But in making hay, tho’ it’s tanning work, I found it more easy to make,
 But it tries one’s legs, and no great relief when you’re tired to sit down on the rake.
 I’d a country dance, too, at harvest home, with a regular country clown,
 But, Lord! they don’t hug one round the waist and give one such smacks in town:
 Then I’ve tried to make friends with the birds and the beasts, but they take to such curious rigs,
 I’m always at odds with the turkey-cock, and I can’t even please the pigs.
 The very hens pick holes in my hand when I grope for the new-laid eggs,
 And the gander comes hissing out of the pond on purpose to flap at my legs.
 I’ve been bump’d in a ditch by the cow without horns, and the old sow trampled me down,
 The beasts are as vicious as any wild beasts—but they’re kept in cages in town!
 Another thing is the nasty dogs—thro’ the village I hardly can stir
 Since giving a bumpkin a pint of beer just to call off a barking cur;
 And now you would swear all the dogs in the place were set on to hunt me down,
 But neither the brutes nor the people I think are as civilly bred as in town.
 Last night about twelve I was scared broad awake, and all in a tremble of fright,
 But instead of a family murder it proved an owl, that flies screeching at night.
 Then there’s plenty of ricks and stalks all about, and I can’t help dreaming of Swing—
 In short, I think that a pastoral life is not the most happiest thing;
 For, besides all the troubles I’ve mentioned before, as endured for rurality’s sake,
 I’ve been stung by the bees, and I’ve set among ants, and once—ugh! I trod on a snake!
 And as to mosquitoes, they tortured me so, for I’ve got a particular skin,
 I do think it’s the gnats coming out of the ponds, that drives the poor suicides in!
 And after all an’t there new-laid eggs to be had upon Holborn Hill?
 And dairy-fed pork in Broad St. Giles, and fresh butter wherever you will?
 And a covered cart that brings Cottage Bread quite rustical-like and brown?
 So one isn’t so very uncountrified in the very heart of the town.
 Howsomever my mind’s made up, and although I’m sure cousin Giles will be vext,
 I mean to book me an inside place up to town upon Saturday next,
 And if nothing happens, soon after ten, I shall be at the Old Bell and Crown,
 And perhaps I may come to the country again, when London is all burnt down.

THE DOCTOR.

A SKETCH.