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THE BOYS AND THE FROGS.

Since fortune all hope of escaping denies

Better give them a little than loose the whole prize.' But scarce had he spoke when we came to a place Whose muddy condition concluded the chace, Down settled the cart, and old Ranger stuck fast Aha! (said the saint) have I catch'd ye at last?'

Cætera desunt.

THE BOYS AND THE FROGS.
(PINDAR.)

A THOUSAND Frogs upon a summer's day,
Were sporting 'midst the sunny ray,
In a large pool, reflecting ev'ry face ;-

They show'd their gold-lac'd clothes, with pride;
In harmless sallies, frequent vy'd,

And gambol'd through the water, with a grace.
It happened that a band of boys,
Observant of their harmless joys,

Thoughtless resolv'd to spoil their happy sport;
One frenzy seiz'd both GREAT and SMALL:
On the poor frogs the rogues began to fall,
Meaning to splash them, not to do them hurt.
As Milton quaintly sings, the stones 'gan pour,'
Indeed an Otaheite show'r!

The consequence was dreadful, let me tell ye;
One's eye was beat out of his head ;-
This limp'd away, that lay for dead,--
Here mourn'd a broken back, and there a belly.

Among the smitten, it was found,

Their beauteous queen receiv'd a wound;
The blow gave ev'ry heart a sigh,

And drew a tear from ev'ry eye;

At length King CROAK got up, and thus begun→→ My lads, you think this very pretty FUN!

THE BAT AND THE WEASELS.

.

'Your pebbles round us fly as thick as hops,-Have warmly complimented all our chops ; To you, I guess, that these are pleasant stones! And so they might be to us Frogs,

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You damn'd young good-for-nothing dogs, 'But that they are so hard--they break our bones.'

THE BAT AND THE WEASELS.

A FABLE.

Or weasels some eat birds. Again
Others eat mice. So says Fontaine.
If I am wrong tho' in this same,
Mark me, the Frenchman is to blame.

A smart young bat for wenching sake,
Was out one night upon the rake:
(Nay, frown not: bats, as well as men,
Must--that they must--sin now and then:)
And while a weasel was at rest

Popt by mistake into his nest.

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Who's there?' cries small guts: wife! my dear! rogue, some thief's got in I fear.

• Some

Who's there? I say-O, sir! is 't you?

This visit you'll be apt to rue.

• Ar' n't you a mouse? speak: are you not? Speak, sirrah, or you go to pot.

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You know, you dog, I hate you all ;-
I say, I hate you, great and small.

Some trifle fluster'd, quoth th' intriguer,
Why, my dear sir, you 're vastly eager.
Sure any bird would think you mad!

A mouse, too! very high egad!

Pray have mice wings? look: wings like these sir? Answer me only, if you please, sir:

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EPITAPH ON AN OLD HORSE.

6 I. heav'n be thank'd! am of the feather,
And glad I am we're here together.'
The honest landlord gaz'd and gaz'd ;
Never was weasel so amaz'd.

The matter settled, off goes bat:
'Odzooks,' quoth he, I hit it pat:
Th' escape I had was good enough!
For once my wit has sav'd my buff.
'But softly, who lives here? I'll call-
Another weasel faith that 's all.'
Mine host who lik'd a fowl for supper,
Quick seiz'd our hero by the crupper.

Hallo! here! murder! help,' cries he;
'What means this outrage, sir, on me?
'D'ye take me for a bird?-the devil?
"What's all this,-sir,-I say be civil.
'Blood, I'm a mouse.' The weasel saw
The mouse's head and little paw:
He begg'd his pardon; 'twa'nt intended
'Gainst one he'd sooner have defended;
Hop'd he'd forgive it--a mistake-
Which any one at night might make.
Be sure he made not much ado ;
Away the rogue in buckram flew.

Thus crafty folks will act; whene'er

They're press'd, they change, and think 'tis fair:

They're this thing here, and t 'other there.

EPITAPH ON AN OLD HORSE.

(DR. LADD.)

LET no facetious mortal laugh,
To see a horse's epitaph:

Lest some old steed, with saucy phiz,
Should have the sense to laugh at his ;

}

A KING AND A BRICK-MAKER.

As well he might; for prove we can,
The courser equal to the man.

This horse was of supreme degree,
At least no common steed was he.-
He scorn'd the tricks of sly trepanners,
And never horse had better manners.
He scorn'd to tell a lie, or mince
His words by clipping half their sense:
But if he meant to shew you why,
He'd out with't, let who would be by.
And (how can man the blush restrain?)
Ne'er took his Maker's name in vain!
A better servant horse was never,
His master own'd that he was clever.
Then to his equals all obliging,
To his inferiors quite engaging;
A better christian, too I trow,
Than some denominated so.
In him we the good father find,
The duteous son the husband kind:
The friend sincere--tho' not to brag,
The honest and well meaning nag.

Then let those fools who vainly laugh,
To see a horse's epitaph,

Go,

, grope among the human dust, And find an epitaph more just.

A KING AND A BRICK-MAKER.

(PINDAR.)

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A KING, near Pimlico, with nose and state,
Did very much a neighb'ring brick-kiln hate,
Because this kiln did vomit nasty smoke;
Which smoke--I can't say very neatly bred,
Did very often take it in the head, [choke.
To blacken the great house, and try the king to

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A KING AND A BRICK MAKER.

His sacred Majesty would sputt'ring say,
Upon a windy day,

'I'll make the rascal and his brick-kiln hop;
'P-x take the smoke! the sulphur! zounds!
'It forces down my throat by pounds;
'My belly is a downright blacksmith's shop.'
One day, he was so pestered by a cloud,
He could not bear it, and thus bawl'd aloud :
Go,' (roar'd his Majesty unto a page;
Work'd like a lion, to a dev'lish rage)

Go tell the rascal, who the brick-kiln owns,
That if he dares to burn another brick,

'Black all my house like hell, and make me sick, 'I'll tear his kiln to rags, and break his bones.' Off set the page, and soon his errand told: On which the brick-maker-a little bold, Exclaim'd, He break my bones, good master page! He say, my kiln sha'nt burn another brick, 'Because it blacks his house, and makes him sick! "Go--give my compliments to master's rage, 'And say more bricks I am resolv'd to burn; 'And-(if the smoke bis worship's stomach turn) To stop his royal mouth and snout:

Nay, more, good PAGE; His Majesty shall find, 'I'll always take th' advantage of the wind, And, dam'me, try to smoke him out."

This was a dreadful message to the King,
From a poor ragged rogue that dealt in mud:
Yet, though so impudent a thing,

The fellow's rhet'ric could not be withstood.
Stiff, as against poor Hasting's, Edmund Burke,
This brick-maker went, tooth and nail to work,
· And form'd a true VESUVIUS on the eye:

The smoke in pitchy volumes roll'd along, Rush'd thro' the royal dome with sulphur strong, And then, ascending, darken'd all the sky.

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