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At the top a fried liver and bacon weré seen, At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen; At the sides there were spinnage and pudding made

hot; In the middle à place where the pasty--was not. Now, my lord, as for tripe it's my utter aversion, And your bacón I hate like a Turk or a Persian; So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round: But what vex'd me most, was that dd Scottish

rogue, With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his

brogue, And, “ Madam," quoth he, may this bit be my

poison, A prettier dinner I never set eyes on; Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst, But I've eat of your tripe, till I'm ready to bursti". “ The tripe," quoth the Jew, with his chocolate

cheek, “ I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week: I like these here dinners so pretty and small; But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at

all." “Omho!" quoth my friend, “ he'll come on in a

trice, He's keeping a corner for something that's nice: There's a pasty”—“ A pasty!” repeated the Jew; “ I don't care if I keep a corner for't too." “ What the de'il, mon, a pasty!" re-echoed the Scot;

Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that."

“ We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out;
“ We'll all keep a corner," was echo'd about.
While thus we resolv'd, and the pasty delay'd,
With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid:
A visage so sad, and so pale with affright,
Wak'd Priam in drawing his curtains by night.
But we quickly found out, for who could mistake her?
That she came with some terrible news from the

baker:
And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven.
Sad Philomel thus--but let similes drop-
And now that I think on't, the story may stop.
To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplac'd,
To send such good verses to one of your taste;
You've got an odd something—a kind of discerning-
A relish a taste-sicken'd over by learning;
At least, it's your temper, as very well known,
That
you

think very slightly of all that's your own : So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. PAUL WHITEHEAD.

BORN 1710.-DIED 1774.

Paul WHITEHEAD was the son of a tailor, in London; and, after a slender education, was placed as an apprentice to a woollen-draper. He afterwards went to the Temple, in order to study law. Several years of his life (it is not quite clear at what period) were spent in the Fleet-prison, owing to a debt which he foolishly contracted, by putting his name to a joint security for 3000l. at the request of his friend Fleetwood, the theatrical manager, who persuaded him that his signature was a mere matter of form. How he obtained his liberation we are not informed.

In the year 1735 he married a Miss Anne Dyer, with whom he obtained ten thousand pounds. She was homely in her person, and very weak in intellect; but Whitehead, it appears, always treated her with respect and tenderness.

He became, in the same year, a satirical rhymer against the ministry of Walpole; and having published his “ State Dunces," a weak echo of the manner of the “Dunciad,” he was patronized by the opposition, and particularly by Bubb Doddington. In 1739 he published the “ Manners," a satire, in which Mr. Chalmers says, that he attacks every thing venerable in the constitution. The poem is not worth disputing about ; but it is certainly a mere personal lampoon, and no attack on the constitution. For this invective he was summoned to appear at the bar of the House of Lords, but concealed himself for a time, and the affair was dropped. The threat of prosecuting him, it was suspected, was meant as a hint to Pope, that those who satirized the great might bring themselves into danger; and Pope (it is pretended) became more cautious. There would seem, however, to be nothing very terrific in the example of a prosecution, that must have been dropped either from clemency or conscious weakness. The ministerial journals took another sort of revenge, by accusing him of irreligion; and the evidence, which they candidly and consistently brought to substantiate the charge, was the letter of a student from Cambridge, who had been himself expelled from the university for atheism.

In 1744 he published another satire, entitled the “Gymnasiad," on the most renowned boxers of the day. It had at least the merit of being harmless.

By the interest of Lord Despenser, he obtained a place under government, that of deputy treasurer of the chamber; and, retiring to a handsome cottage, which he purchased at Twickenham, he lived in comfort and hospitality, and suffered his small satire and politics to be equally forgotten. Churchill attacked him in a couplet,

“ May I (can worse disgrace on manhood fall) “ Be born a Whitehead, and baptized a Paul."

But though a libertine like Churchill, he seems not to have been the worse man of the two. - Sir John Hawkins gives him the character of being good hearted, even to simplicity; and says, that he was esteemed at Twickenham for his kind offices, and for composing quarrels among his neighbours.

HUNTING SONG.

The sun from the east tips the mountains with gold; The meadows all spangled with dew-drops behold! Hear! the lark's early matin proclaims the new day, And the horn's cheerful summons rebukes our delay.

CHORUS.

With the sports of the field there's no pleasure

can vie, While jocund we follow the hounds in full cry.

Let the drudge of the town make riches his sport;
The slave of the state hunt the smiles of a court:
No care and ambition our pastime annoy,
But innocence still gives a zest to our joy.

With the sports, &c.

Mankind are all hunters in various degree;
The priest hunts a living the lawyer a fee,
The doctor a patient-the courtier a place,
Though often, like us he's flung out in the chase.

With the sports, &c.

VOL. V.

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