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And it must help us here.—Thou must

endure The ill, my son, or travel for the cure. Search land and sea, and get, where'er

you can, The inmost vesture of a happy man, I mean his SHIRT, my son; which, taken

At least, they have as fair a cause as any

can, They drink good wine and keep no Ram.

azan. Then northward, ho!"— The vessel cuts

the sea,

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And fair Italia lies upon her lee.
But fair Italia, she who once unfurled
Her eagle banners o'er a conquered world,
Long from her throne of domination

tumbled, Lay, by her quondam vassals sorely

humbled; The Pope himself looked pensive, pale,

and lean, And was not half the man he once had

been. “While these the priest and those the

noble fleeces, Our poor old boot," they said, “is torn

to pieces. Its tops the vengeful claws of Austria feel, And the great Devil is rending toe and

heel. If happiness you seek, to tell you truly, We think she dwells with one Giovanni

Bulli; A tramontane, a heretic,—the buck, Poffaredio! still has all the luck; By land or ocean never strikes his flagAnd hen-a perfect walking money-bag." Off set our prince to seek John Bull's

abode, But first took France-it lay upon the

road.

All are on board — the Sultan and his

train, In gilded galley prompt to plough the main. The old Rais* was the first who ques

tioned, “Whither?" They paused.—“Arabia," thought the

pensive prince, “Was called The Happy many ages

since. For Mokha, Rais." — And they came

safely thither. But not in Araby, with all her balm, Not where Judea weeps beneath her palm, Not in rich Egypt, not in Nubian waste, Could there the step of happiness be traced. One Copt alone professed to have seen her

smile, When Bruce his goblet filled at infant

Nile; She blessed the dauntless traveller as he

quaffed, But vanished from him with the ended

draught.

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“Pray, can you tell me aught of one

John Bull,
That dwells somewhere beyond your

herring-pool?" The query seemed of difficult digestion, The party shrugged, and grinned, and

took his snuff, And found his whole good-breeding scarce

enough. Twitching his visage into as many puckers As damsels wont to put into their tuckers, (Ere liberal Fashion damned both lace and

lawn, And bade the veil of modesty be drawn), Replied the Frenchman, after a brief

pause, “ Jean Bool !-I vas not know him— Yes,

I vasI vas remember dat, von year or two, I saw him at von place called Vaterloo Ma foi ! il s'est tres joliment battu, Dat is for Englishman,-m'entendez vous? But den he had wit him one dson

gun Rogue I no like--dey call him Vellington." Monsieur's politeness could not hide his fret,

(strait. So Solimaun took leave, and crossed the

"Happy? my tenants breaking on my

hand; Unstocked my pastures and untilled my

land; Sugar and rum a drug, and mice and

moths The sole consumers of my good broad

clothsHappy?–Why, cursed war and racking Have left us scarcely raiment to our

backs." "In that case, signior, I may take my

leave; I came to ask a favour-but I grieve"“Favour?" said John, and eyed the Sul

tan hard, " It's my belief you come to break the

yard !But, stay, you look like some poor foreign

sinner, Take that to buy yourself a shirt and

dinner."With that he chucked a guinea at his head; But, with due dignity, the Sultan said, “Permit me, sir, your bounty to decline; A shirt indeed I seek, but none of thine. Signior, I kiss your hands, so fare you

well. “Kiss and be d-d," quoth John, “and go to h-!"

[Peg, Next door to John there dwelt his sister Once a wild lass as ever shook a leg When the blithe bagpipe blew, but soberer now,

(cow. She doucely span her flax and milked her And whereas erst she was a needy slattern, Nor now of wealth or cleanliness a pattern, Yet once a month her house was partly

swept, And once a week a plenteous board she

kept. And whereas, eke, the vixen used her claws And teeth of yore, on slender provoca

tion, She now was grown amenable to laws,

A quiet soul as any in the nation; The sole remembrance of her warlike joys Was in old songs she sang to please her

boys. John Bull, whom, in their years of early

strife, She wont to lead a cat-and-doggish life, Now found the woman, as he said, a neigh

bour Who looked to the main chance, declined no labour,

John Bull was in his very worst of moods, Raving of sterile farms and unsold goods; His sugar-loaves and bales about he threw, And on his counter beat the devil's tattoo. His wars were ended, and the victory won, But then, 'twas reckoning-day with honest

John; And authors vouch, 'twas still this wor

thy's way, “Never to grumble till he came to pay; And then he always thinks, his temper's

such, The work too little, and the pay too much." Yet, grumbler as he is, so kind and

hearty, That when his mortal foe was on the floor, And past the power to harm his quiet more, Poor John had well-nigh wept for Bona

parte! Such was the wight whom Solimaun

salaamed, "And who are you?" John answered,

"and be d-d!"

"A stranger, come to see the happiest

man, — So, signior, all avouch,-in Frangistan."

For a long space had John, with words of

thunder, Hard looks, and harder knocks, kept Paddy under,

[unduly, Till the poor lad, like boy that 's flogged Had gotten somewhat restive and unruly. Hard was his lot and lodging, you 'll allow, A wigwam that would hardly serve a sow; His landlord, and of middle-men two

brace, Had screwed his rent up to the starving.

place; His garment was a top-coat, and an old one; His meal was a potato, and a cold one; But still for fun or frolic, and all that, In the round world was not the match of

Pat.

Loved a long grace, and spoke a northern

jargon, And was d-d close in making of a bar

gain. The Sultan entered, and he made his

leg. And with decorum curtseyed sister Peg. (She loved a book, and knew a thing or

two, And guessed at once with whom she had

to do.) She bade him “Sit into the fire," and took Her dram, her cake, her kebbuck from the

nook ; Asked him “about the news from Eastern

parts; And of her absent bairns, puir Highland

hearts If peace brought down the price of tea and

pepper, And if the nitmugs were grown ony

cheaper ;Were there nae speerings of our Mungo

Park?— Ye 'll be the gentleman that wants the sark? If ye wad buy a web o'auld wife's spinnin', I'll warrant ye it's a weel-wearing linen." Then up got Peg, and round the house

'gan scuttle In search of goods her customer to nail, Until the Sultan strained his princely

throttle, And hollo'd, “Ma'am, that is not what

I ail. Pray, are you happy, ma'am, in this snug

glen?" 'Happy?" said Peg; "what for d'ye

want to ken? Besides, just think upon this by-gane year, Grain wadna pay the yoking of the

pleugh.” "What say you to the present?"-"Meal's

sae dear, To make their brose my bairns have

scarce aneugh." “The devil take the shirt," said Solimaun, "I think my quest will end as it began. Farewell, ma'am; nay, no ceremony, I

beg" "Ye 'll no be for the linen then?" said Peg. Now for the land of verdant Erin The Sultan's royal bark is steering, The Emerald Ísle, where honest Paddy

dwells, The cousin of John Bull, as story tells.

The Sultan saw him on a holiday,
Which is with Paddy still a jolly day:
When Mass is ended, and his load of sins
Confessed, and Mother Church hath from

her binns Dealt forth a bonus of imputed merit, Then is Pat's time for fancy, whim, and

spirit ! To jest, to sing, to caper fair and free, And dance as light as leaf upon the tree. “By Mahomet,” said Sultan Solimaun, “That ragged fellow is our very man! Rush in and seize him, do not do him hurt, But, will he nill he, let me have his shirt."

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Shilela their plan was wellnigh after baulk. ing,

(ing.) (Much less provocation will it set a-walkBut the odds that foiled Hercules foiled

Paddy Whack; They seized, and they floored, and they

stripped him.-Alack ! Up-bubboo! Paddy had not-a shirt to

his back!!! And the King, disappointed, with sorrow

and shame, Went back to Serendib as sad as he came.

-:0:

DR. WOLCOT.

1738-1819.

THE RAZOR-SELLER.

A FELLOW in a market town,
Most musical cried “Razors," up and

down,

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WILLIAM PITT.

(Date unknown.) THE SAILOR'S CONSOLATION.

Being well lathered from a dish or tub, Hodge now began with grinning pain to

grub, Just like a hedger cutting furze: 'Twas a vile razor!- then the rest he

tried All were impostors-"Ah!" Hodge sighed, “I wish my eighteenpence were in my

purse. In vain, to chase his beard, and bring the

graces, He cut, and dug, and winced, and

stamped, and swore, Brought blood, and danced, reviled, and

made wry faces, And cursed each razor's body o'er and

o'er:

ONE night came on a hurricane,

The sea was mountains rolling, When Barney Buntline slewed his quid,

And said to Billy Bowline: "A strong nor'-wester 's blowing, Bill ;

Hark! don't ye hear it roar now? Lord help 'em, how I pities them

Unhappy folks on shore now!

"Foolhardy chaps as live in towns,

What danger they are all in, And now lie quaking in their beds,

For fear the roof should fall in : Poor creatures ! how they envies us,

And wishes, I've a notion, For our good luck, in such a storm,

To be upon the ocean!

His muzzle, formed of opposition stuff, Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff ; So kept it-laughing at the steel and

suds : Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws,

(claws, Vowing the direst vengeance, with clenched

On the vile cheat that sold the goods: " Razors! a base, confounded dog! Not fit to scrape a hog!" Hodge sought the fellow-found him, and

begunPerhaps. Master Razor - rogue, to you

'tis fun

“And as for them that's out all day,

On business from their houses, And late at night returning home,

To cheer their babes and spouses; While you and I, Bill, on the deck

Are comfortably lying, My eyes! what tiles and chimneypots

About their heads are flying!

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FRIEND OF HUMANITY. I give thee sixpence! I will see thee hanged

firstWretch, whom no sense of wrongs can

rouse to vengeanceSordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,

Spiritless outcast ! (Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his

wheel, and exit in a transport of re. publican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.

-:0:

FRIEND OF HUMANITY. NEEDY Knife-grinder! whither are you

going? Rough is your road, your wheel is out of

order ; Bleak blows the blast-your hat has got a hole in 't,

So have your breeches. Weary Knife-grinder! little think the

proud ones, Who, in their coaches, roll along the

turnpike. Road, what hard work 'tis crying all day, " Knives and

Scissors to grind, O!" Tell me, Knife-grinder, how came you to

grind knives? Did some rich man tyrannically use you? Was it the squire, or parson of the parish,

Or the attorney ? Was it the squire, for killing of his game?

or Covetous parson, for his tithes distrain

ing? Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little

All in a lawsuit?

HORACE SMITH.

1779-1849. THE JESTER CONDEMNED TO

DEATH.

One of the Kings of Scanderoon,

A royal jester,
Had in his train a gross buffoon,

Who used to pester
The court with tricks inopportune,
Venting on the highest folks his
Scurvy pleasantries and hoaxes.
It needs some sense to play the fool,
Which wholesome rule

Occurred not to our jackanapes,
Who consequently found his freaks

Lead to innumerable scrapes, And quite as many kicks and tweaks, Which only seemed to make him faster Try the patience of his master.

(Have you not read the “Rights of Man,"

by Tom Paine ?) Drops of compassion tremble on my eye.

lids, Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your

Pitiful story

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