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* If Measter Muggs have tould a lie,

* Then vairly crack my noddle.

• Vor 1 do never hungry be,

'Before my guts I vill, .' And drowth do never trouble me,

* Before I gets a z will.

'And I did never work pursue,

'Till tir'd or overheated; 'Zo Measter Muggs have tould ye true,

'And you have not been cheated.'


CoroNEt Patrick O'Blaney, as honest a teague,
As ever took snuff to repel pest or plague,
Having got a French snuff box, of papier machee,
Which to open requir'd much pains, do you see;
Always kept a bent sixpence at hand in his pocket,
And call'd it his key, by the which to unlock it;
As by niggling and wedging it under the lid,
H<- came to-his rappee that was under it hid:
But one day when he wanted a pinch for a friend,
He search'd for his tester, but all to no end,
Til] at last 'twixt the pocket and lining he found it;
When in rage he cried—* Arrah the devil confound

I 'll engage you don't serve me the same trick again,
For to make me after thus hunting in vain.'
So opening the box by the help of the tizzy,
And feaking his nose till his noddle was dizzy,
He chuck'd in the coin, and exclaimed with a shrug,
While tight went the rim down—* So there you

lie snug; And my hide-and-seek friend, I beg leave to remind

^ ye,

That the next time I want yon, I'll know where to find ye.'



At Paris, some time since, amurd'ring man,
A German, and a most unlucky chap.

Sad, stumbling at the threshold of his plan,
Fell into Justice's strong trap.

The bungler was condemn'd to grace the wheel,
On which the dullest fibres learn to feel;

His limbs secundum artem to be broke Amidst ten thousand people perhaps, or more;

Whenever Monsieur Ketch appli'd a stroke, The culprit, like a bullock made a roar.

A flippant petit maitre skipping by,

Stepp'd up to him, and check'a his cry—f

'Boh!' quoth the German ; 'an't I* pon the wheel?

*D' ye tink my nerfs and bons can't feel?'

'Sir' quoth the beau; 'do n't, do n't be in a passion; 'I've nought to say about your situation; 'But making such a hideous noise in France, 'Fellow, is contrary to bienseance.'


(written By Himself.)

Here lies a head that often ach'd:
Here lie two hands that always shak'd:
Here lies a brain of odd conceit;
Here lies a heart that often beat:
Here lie two eyes that daily wept,
And in the night but seldom slept;
Here lies a tongue that whining talk'd
Here lie two feet that feebly walk'd;


Here lie the midriff and the breast,
With loads of indigestion prest;
Here lies the liver, full of bile,
That ne'er secreted proper chyle j
Here lie the bowels, human tripes,
Tortur'd with wind, and twisting gripes;
Here lies the livid dab, the spleen,
The source of life's sad tragic scene;
That leftside weight that clogs the blood,
And stagnates nature's circling flood;
Here lie the nerves, so often twitch'd
With painful cramps and poignant stitch y
Here lies the back, oft rackt with pains j
Corroding kidneys, loins and reins;
Here lies the skin, by scurvy fed^
With pimples and eruptions red;
Here lies the man from top to toe,
That fabric fram'd for pain and wo.



Cocking his tail, a saucy prig,
A Magpie hopp'd upon a Pig,

To pull some hair, forsooth, to line his nest;
And with such ease began the hair attack,
As thinking the fee simple of the back

Was by himself, and not the pig, possest.

The Boar look'd up as thunder black to Mag,
Who squinting down on him like an arch wag,

Inform'd Mynheer some bristles must be torn;
Then busy went to work, not nicely culling;
Got a good handsome beakfull by good pulling,

And flew without a 'thank ye' to his thorn.

The pig set up a dismal yelling;
Follow'd the robber to his dwellings

Who, like a fool had built it midst a bramble: In, manfully he sallied, full of might, Determin'd to obtain his right,

And midst the bushes now began to scramble.

He drove the magpie, tore his nest to rags,
And, happy on the downfall, pour'd his brags:

But ere he from the brambles came alack!
His ears and eyes were miserably torn,
His bleeding hide in such a plight forlorn,

He could not count ten hairs upon his back.


Three or four parsons, full of October,
Three or four 'squires, between drunk and sober;
Three or four lawyers, three or four liars;
Three or four constables, three or four cryers;
Three or four parishes bringing appeals,
Three or four writings, and three or four seals;
Three or four bastards, three or four whores,
Tag, rag, and bobtail, three or four scores;
Three or four statutes, misunderstood;
Three or four paupers, all praying for food,
Three or four roads, that never were mended;
Three or four scolds—and the session is ended.


My sledge and hammer lie dcclin'd;
My bellows too have lost their wind;
My fire's extinct, my forge decay'd;
My vice is in the dust all laid;
My coal is spent, my iron gone,
My nails are drove, my work is done.
My fire-dried corpse lies here at rest:
My soul, smoke-like, soars to be blest.

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