Should my customers e'er vapour, And be ready their beards to mow, 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; I love not man the less, but Nature more, Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean!-roll; He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee;- Thou glorious mirror! where the ALMIGHTY'S form Calm or convulsed,-in breeze, or gale, or storm, Dark-heaving:-boundless, endless, and sublime- Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made: each zone 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, Now, this parson had got a stout cask of strong beer, While he the church service in haste mutter'd o'er, Out spouted the liquor abroad on the ground, And now, the grave lecture and prayers at an end, The dinner was ready, and all things laid snug- 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; 'Lord, husband!' said she, what a coil you keep here, You should, in your troubles, mischances, and crosses, A plague upon Job,' cried the priest in a rage; 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, 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, 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 Fal lal la, &c. sing Den my uncle Aarons died, And I was heir for life; 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. 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, Than Gog and Magog with their clubs, The Scandinavian Thor, Did with his mallet, which (see Bryant's Mythology) fell'd 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 And had he been content with shaking Marking, with paw upon his mazzard, Or rattling in a box the dice, |