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Should my customers e'er vapour,
I show 'em an old paper,
Which I beg them to peruse ;
Should they find the cheat, sirs,
Their patience I entreat, sirs,
Which they seldom or e'er refuse.
For by this time I contrive,
My business quick to drive,
And be ready their beards to mow,
And be ready their beards to mow;
Of me you're making fun,
Sir, I tell you I've just done.
Mr. Latherem, here, hollo.

Spoken.] Mr. Feeble, shall I shave you ? your beard's in a sad condition, like the times—Don't talk to me of the times, for I've no time to talk to you—How's Mrs. Feeble, sir ?–Mind your business, and don't pester me—if you move your head, I shall do your business—Mr. Ledderum, dat blacking you sould me is all turned brown, burn my caxon, but I've a great desire to give you, for de blacking, a black eye ; devil de drop of Day and Martin was dere; no, by de powers, it was all Betty Martin-Sir, if you'll return it-Tunder and turf, return it, how, you shabroon, d’ye think I'm to do that? didn't I tell you, do I forget to mention it, dat I had used every sup of it-Well, sir, I hope we shall make matters up over a glass of Geneva-Oh ! and is it dat you're after, oh ! musha, my darling, you're a nate little bottle seller ; here's to ould Ireland—here's may animosity be washed away by the soap-suds of oblivion ; may the voice of the people never be cut in two by the razor of discord, and may the shop of justice never be shut when honesty knocks at the door.

So, with scissors, comb, and lather, &c.

THE OCEAN.

THERE is a pleasure in the pathless woods ;
There is a rapture on the lonely shore ;
There is society where none intrudes,
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar :
I love not man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,

To mingle with the universe,--and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal,

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean !-roll ;
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain :-
Man marks the earth with ruin,-his control
Stops with the shore ;--upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed; nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When for a moment, like a drop of rain,

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknell’d, uncoffin'd, and unknown.

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals,-
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war,
These are thy toys; and as the snowy flake,

They melt into the yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee ;-
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage,—what are they?
Thy waters wasted them while they were free,
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts : not so thou,
Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play;

Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow;
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

Thou glorious mirror! where the ALMIGHTY's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
Calm or convulsed,-in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving :-boundless, endless, and sublime
The image of eternity,—the throne
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime

The monsters of the deep are made : each zone
Obeys thee; thou goest forth-dread-fathomless-alone!

THE BEER BARREL ; OR, JOB'S PATIENCE.

A PARSON who had a remarkable foible,
In minding the bottle more than the bible,
Was deem'd by his neighbours to be less perplex'd
In handling a tankard, than handling a text.

Perch'd up in his pulpit, one Sunday he cried,
*Make patience, my dearly beloved, your guide ;
And, in all your troubles, mischances, and crosses,
Remember the patience of Job in his losses.'

Now, this parson had got a stout cask of strong beer,
A present, no doubt—but no matter from where;
Suffice it to say, that he reckon'd it good,
And valu'd the liquor as much as his blood.

While he the church service in haste mutter'd o'er,
The nogs found their way thro' his old cellar-door;
And by the sweet scent of the beer-barrel led,
Had knock'd out the spigot or cock from its head.

Out spouted the liquor abroad on the ground,
And the unbidden guests quaff'd it merrily round;
Nor from their diversion or merriment ceas'd,
Till ev'ry hog there was a true drunken beast.

And now, the grave lecture and prayers at an end,
He brings along with him a neighbouring friend,
To be a partaker of Sunday's good cheer,
And taste his delightful October-brewed beer.

The dinner was ready, and all things laid snug-
Here, wife,' says the parson, "go fetch up a mug.'
But a mug of what liquor he'd scarce time to tell her,
When— Lord, husband !' she cried, 'there's the hogs in the cellar.

• To be sure they've got in whilst we were at pray’rs.' To be sure you're a fool, so get you down stairs, And bring what I bid you-go, see what's the matter, For now I myself hear a grunting and clatter.'

She went, and returning with sorrowful face,
In suitable phrases related the case ;
He rav'd like a madman, and snatching a broom,
First belabour'd his hogs, then his wife round the room.

Was ever poor mortal so pester'd as I ?
With a base slut who keeps all my house like a stye ;
How came you to have your d-d hogs in the kitchen?
Is that a fit place to keep cattle, you

, in ?

• Lord, husband !' said she, 'what a coil you keep here,
About a poor beggarly barrel of beer!
You should, in your troubles, mischances, and crosses,
Remember the patience of Job in his losses.'

• A plague upon Job,' cried the priest in a rage;
"That beer, I dare say, was near three years of age;
But you are a poor stupid fool, like his wife,
Why, Job never had such a cask in his life !'

SWEET MR. LEVI.

When a pretty little boy,

A young merchantman so gay,
With my lollipops and toy,

Of Duke's Place I bore the sway.
The pretty little maidens,

With their pretty little smile,
Dey stole my little heart,

For my senses they becuile.

Spoken.] Vel, I remember the day when I tramped with my little shop round my neck, and turned my honest living ; but den de little shedibels always was upon my thoughts—dere (was their cry) dere goes sweet Mr. Levi ! dere goes charming Mr. Levi !-dere goes handsome Mr. Levi !-dear me ! dear me ! the sound of their pretty little voices always made me sing

Fal lal la, &c.
A few years pass away,

And a young man soon I grows,
When around in London streets,

I chant away old clothes ;
Clo-sale-clo-sale-clo-

I raise aloud the cry,
And as I pass along,

How the pretty damsels sigh. Spoken.] Bless ma heart ! vel, vat can I do ; I console with them as well as I am able ; and, though a circumscribed Jew, I tickle their fancy as well as the best, for I always make 'em sing

Fal lal la, &c.
Den my uncle Aarons died,

And I was heir for life;
So I thought myself as how

To get a little vife;
I'd kissed and toyed away

With many a vixen she,
But I vanted one alone

To kiss and toy vid me.

Spoken.) So I left off trading in old clothes to trade with ladies' hearts; so I makes love to Miss Rachael, and she, beautiful creature, melts my heart like a stick of Dutch sealing wax, which makes me sing

Fal lal la, &c.
So married soon I got,

And sung “ Begone, dull care,”
And nine months after that

I danced a little heir;
Then Jacob, Mo, and Sue,

Vid Samuels so sly,
How happy was the Jew

Vid such a family. Spoken.] Bless ma heart, vat a happy rogue vas I ; I thought myself richer than Solomon in all his glory, for I had got the true-begotten children of ma heart around me, and vat could my vife and I do but sing

Fal lal la, &c.

THE TAILOR.

A city auctioneer, one Samuel Stubbs,

Did greater execution with his hammer,

Assisted by his puffing clamour,
Than Gog and Magog with their clubs,
Or that great Fee-fa-fum of war,
The Scandinavian Thor,
Did with his mallet, which (see Bryant's
Mythology) sellid stoutest giants :
For Samuel knock'd down houses, churches,
And woods of oak, and elms and birches,
With greater ease than mad Orlando,
Tore the first tree he laid his hand to.

He ought, in reason, to have raised his own
Lot by knocking others down ;
And had he been content with shaking
His hammer and his hand, and taking
Advantage of what brought him grist, he
Might have been as rich as Christie ;
But somehow when thy midnight bell, Bow,

Sounded along Cheapside its knell,

Our spark was busy in Pall-mall
Shaking his elbow,-
Marking, with paw upon his mazzard,
The turns of hazard;
Or rattling in a box the dice,

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