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'Go back, ye waves, ye blustring rogues !(quoth he) 'Touch not your lord and master, Sea!—

* For, by my pow'r almighty, if you do;' Then staring vengeance,—out he held a stick, Vowing to drive old Ocean to old nick,

Should he ev'n wet the latchet of his shoe.

The Sea retir'd: the monarch fierce rush'd on,
And look'd, as if he'd drive him from the land;

But Sea. not caring to be put upon,
Made, for a moment, a bold stand;

Not only made a stand did Mr. Ocean,
But to his honest waves he made a motion.

And bid them give the king a hearty trimming,
The orders seem'd a deal the waves to tickle:
For soon they put his majesty in pickle;

And set his royalties like geese a swimming.

All hands aloft, with one tremendous roar;
Soon did they make him wish himself on shore;

His head and ears most handsomely they dous'd;
Just like a porpoise, with one gen'ral shout,
The waves so tumbled the poor king about;

No Anabaptist e'er was half so sous'd.

At length to land he crawl'd a half-drown'd thing, Indeed more like a crab than like a king;

And found his courtiers making rueful faces. But what said Canute to the lords and gentry. Who hail'd him from the water, on his entry,

All trembling for their lives or places?

'My lords, and gentlemen, by your advice,

* I 've had, with Mr. Sea, a pretty bustle; 'My treatment from my foe not over-nice,

* Just made a jest for every shrimp and muscle. 'A pretty trick for one of my dominion!

'My lords, [ thank you for your great opinion.

'You 'll say, perhaps. I've lost one game,
'And bid me try another—for the rubber—

'Permit me to inform you all, with shame,

'That you're a set of knaves, and I'm a lubber.*



Honest William, an easy and good-natur'd fellow,
Would a little too oft get a little too mellow,
Body coachman was he to an eminent brewer—
No better e'er sat on a box to be sure.
His coach was kept clean, and no mothers or nurses
Took that care of their babes that he took of his

He had these—ay, and fifty good qualities more;
But the business of tippling could ne'er be got o'er:
So his master effectually mended the matter,
By hiring a man who drank nothing but water.
Now, William, says he, you see the plain case;
Had you drank as he does, you'd kept a good place.
Drink water! quoth William—had all men done so,
You'd never have wanted a coachman, I trow.
They 're soakers, like me, whom you load with re-
That enable you brewers to ride in your coaches.



Cries Sylvia to a reverend dean,

What reason can be given, Since marriage is a holy thing,

That they are none in heaven? There are no women, he replied.

She quick returns the jest— Women there are, but I'm afraid

They cannot find a_priest.



Walking one afternoon along the strand, My wond'ring eyes did suddenly expand

Upon a pretty leash of country lasses. 'Heav'ns! my dear beauteous angels, how d'ye do?

'Upon my soul I'm monstrous glad to see ye.' 'Swinge! Peter we are glad to meet with you;

'We're just to London come—well,pray, how be ye?

* We 're just a going, while 'tis light,
'To see St. Paul's, before 'tis dark.

'Lord! come—for once, be so polite,
'And condescend to be our spark.'

* With all my heart, my angels.'—On we walk'd, And much of London—much of Cornwall talk'd:

Now did I hug myself, to think How much that glorious structure would surprise,

How from its awful grandeur they would shrink, With open mouths, and marv'ling eyes!

As near to Ludgate-hill we drew,

St. Paul's just op'ning on our view;

Behold, my lovely strangers, one and all,

Gave, all at once a diabolic squall,

As if they had been tumbled on the stones,

And some confounded cart had crush'd their bones.

After well fright'ning people with their cries,
And sticking to a ribbon shop their eyes—
They all rush'd in, with sounds enough to stunV-
And clatt'ring all together, thus begun.

'Swinge! here are colours then to please!
'Delightful things, I vow to Heav'fl!


'Why! not to see such things as these,
'We never should haveheen fbrgtv'n.
'Here, here, are clever things—good Lord!
'And. sister, here upon my word—

'Here, here! look! here are beauties to delight;
'Why! how a body's heels might dance
'Along, from Launceston to Penzance,

'Before that one might meet with such a sight!'

'Come, ladies, 't will he dark,' cry'd I—' I fear; 'Pray, let us view St. Paul's, it is so near''— * Lord! Peter, (cry'd the girls) do n't mind St. Paul? i Sure! you 're a most incurious soul— 'Why we can see the church another day: .Do n't be afraid, St. Paul's can't run away.'


A Scoiding wife so long a sleep possess'd,
Her spouse presnm'd her soul was now at rest;
Sable was call'd to hang the room with black,
And all their cheer was sugar, rolls and sack.
Two mourning staffs stood sentry at the door,
And silence reign'd, who ne'er was there before;
The cloaks, and tears, and handkerchiefs prepar'd,.
They march'd in woeful ppmp to the church-yard;
When see of narrow streets, what mischiefs come!
The very dead can't pass in quiet home;
By some rude jolt the coffin lid was broke,
And madam from her dream of death awoke.
Now all was spoil'd! the undertaker's pay,'
Sour faces, cakes and wine quite thrown away.
Butsome years after, when the former scene
Was acted, and the coffin nail'd again;
The tender husband took especial care
To keep the passage from disturbance clear j.
Charging the bearers that they tread aright*
Nor put his dear in such another fright!



Great is the loss of Gentlefolks from Wapping,
Who, fond of travel, unto Margate roam,
To gain that consequence they want at home.
At Margate how like quality they strut!

Nothing is good enough to greet their jaws;
Yet when at home, are often forced, God wot,

To suck like bears a dinner from their paws— Forc'd on an old joint-stool their tea to take,

With treacle 'stead of sugar for their gums; Butt'ring their hungry loaf, or oaten cake,

Like mighty Charles of Sweeden, with their thumbs. •

But Hoy, inform me—who is she—on board,
That seems the lady of a first-rate Lord,
With stomach high push'd forth as if in scorn,
Like craws of ducks and ge«se o'ercharged with

corn— ,
Dress'din a glaring, gorgeous damask gown,
Which, roses, like the leaves of cabbage, crowny
With also a bright petticoat of pink,
To make the eye from such a lustre shrink?
Yes, who is she the Patagonian dame,

A.s bulky as of Heidelberg the tun;
Her face, as if by brandy taught to flame,

In blaze superior to the noonday sun—

With fingers just like sausages, fat things;
And loaded much like curtain rods with rings?
Yes, who is she that with a squinting eye
Surveys poor passengers that sick'ningsigh;
Sad, pale-nos'd, gaping, pulling, mournful faces*.
Deserted by the blooming smiling graces;

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