the 
vw, 
¥, nae 
Bt 
at Doll, tliow hast got,” says he, «© two spark- 
ling eyes, - 
And thou canst ‘mingle music with thy 
sighs: . 
Go, and employ their powers. upon the pit, 
Where half the masters of our fortune sit ; - 
Yes, Dolly, thou hast preity acting parts : 
Go, try to make a conquest of their hearts ; 
And, verily my girl, I'should not wonder, 
If the whole house were one huge clap of 
_. thunder: 
Go, try, for: should our comedy but fail, 
By heavens, to-morrow, {shall go to jail ; 
And if well done; Tl well thy pow’rs -re- 
y quite ; 
Pay all I owe ches Dolly, every doit; 
Nay more to please thee, thou shalt tread the 
scene 
In my next tragedy, a, Murder’d Queen!” 
Treally think at times my master’s mad ! 
Ke makes such mouths, now metry, and now 
mag Cl 
Now bellowing it away with such a roar! 
I never heard such ranting stuff before. 
s* Lud! Sir,” says I, ** *tis. most oe 
tion !” 
*€¥ool! hold thy tongue,” says he, ‘ sti 
inspiration ! 
The true sublime, hy which a world is won: 
F’en Giant Shakspedre is himself outdone.” 
Sar land is not the land of milk and ‘honey ! 
i scarcely know the colour of his money ; 
if in the street I haopen ‘to be seen; 
¥ hear thet foul-mouth’d .voman, Mistress 
Green, 
= “ Why dont your Poet 
lads, 
And try to turn a penny by his ballads ? 
I can’t think what the scrubby Feé//ar means, 
Aliss, does he think I steals my peas and 
beans? . 
p2y me for my sal- 
Tell him, Miss, for I ehobses to be oy 
He never gits 2 turnip-top again,” 
Now Poll Macgra, the milk-maid, with her 
SCOres 
“© Dye think Pl] trot ny brogues from door 
te door, 
Wade through the dirty lanes in cold and 
rains, ; 
And only get my labour for my pains ? 
Fioney, pray mark my words,and hear me now, 
Your crazy pipkin sucks no more my cow.” 
and now the pot-boy’s saucy tongue I hear, 
$* Why .dont you pay the score jor ale and 
-beer ?”” 
4nd now the baker impudently howls, 
** Why dont. your master Py me for the 
 Folls 
Now Robin Fin, the habapdeeet roars Out, 
** Why dont your Rymer pay me for the trout? 
Poets, like cats, are dev’lish fond of fish; 
Your master seems to like a dainty dish! 
Miss, tell him if he don’t discharge his bill, 
Vil get a pretty hook into his gill.” oS 
now thé Poulterer Giblet’s coarse 
abese, 
Original Poetry.’ 
[ F eb. ty 
‘© Why dont your master pay me for the 
goose? 
D’ye know Miss thiere are birds call’d snipes 
and pigeons, 
Woodcocks and plovers, wild ducks, teal and 
widgeons, 
. Bid him his money quickly send or bring 
Or tar and feather me, [’l! clip his \ wing. sie 
_ And now the butcher Garbage, with his pipe, 
‘¢ Why don’t old Tag-rhime pay me for my- 
tripe? 
A pretty job at other’s cost to cram ; 
‘ Whydont he'settle for the veal and lamb > 
Ma’ ary does he think for wor yee Pham mee 
Folks fond: of eating should be fond of pay- 
ing! 
Man, without money, should not Mt a glute 
ton, © 
What business has the dag, with lemb or, 
mutton ? 
Bid him go out and steal, or beg, or borrow, 
Or cleaver me, 1] have his hide to-morrow.” 
Such is'the vulgar treatment that I meet! 
T really tremble as I walk the Street; 
tud? T long to know my master’s fate! ~ 
Must Fortune or Miss- Fortune om him wait ? 
Come, come, an act of mercy let us see, . 
If with our Bard displeas’¢, be kind to me 5 
But, crue! ehosld you frown upon his pages, 
That frown’s a broom which sweeps away my 
Wages 5 : . 
But should you save this ‘bantling of his 
brain, 
I hope to make my curtsy here again. | 
Go, try my Love, my Angel, try thy pow’ 185 
ert and glory will at once be ours; 
Our friends this evening would ye chuse to 
' stand, 
Your ‘clapping would be | Brett notes at 
band. © 
SONNET AGAINST DESPAIR: 
Translated from Carto Maria Macey; 
- By Miss STARKES 
A® why, my Soul, why yield ta dire De- 
spair, 
Tho’ Conscience sting doen with. seveapat 
blame ? 
God claims our love ; to slight his claims 
beware! 
For are nat Love and Confidence the same ? 
Think of those guerdons, rich in grace ai- 
vine, 
Which thou, a mite in Being's wondrous 
scale, 
May’ st still aspire to share, if Faith be thine, 
And teach thee o’er bad Angels to prevail. 
Then, with the heart’s sweet incense, Gra- 
titude, — 
Accept each grace to contrite Sinners giv’n; 
Nor be, with Mis’ ry’s bitter drops, imbu'd 
The manna show’r'd, ey Mercy’s hand, 
‘from heav’n. | 
Weep for thy errors, give Repentance SCOPE } 
But let the scalding tear engender Hope. 
SONNET 
