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THE ROYAL SHEEP.

With soap and sand his homely visage scours
(Rough from the joint attacks of sun and showers)
The sheepskin breeches decorate his thighs---
Next on his back the homespun coat he tries;
Round his broad breast he wraps the jerkin blae,
And sews a spacious soal on either shoe.
Thus, all prepared, the fond adoring swain
Cuts from his groves of pine a ponderous cane;
In thought a beau, a savage to the eye,

Forth, from his mighty bosom, heaves the sigh;
Tobacco is the present for his fair,

This he admires, and this best pleases her--
The bargain struck--few cares his bosom move
How to maintain, or how to lodge his love;
Close at his hand the piny forest

grows,
Thence for his hut a slender frame he hews,
With art, (not copied from Palladio's rules,)
A hammer and an axe, his only tools,
By Nature taught, a hasty but he forms

Safe in the woods, to shelter from the storms ;~
There sees the summer pass and winter come,
Nor envies Britain's king his loftier home.

THE ROYAL SHEEP.

(PINDAR.)

SOME time ago, a dozen lambs,
Two rev'rend patriarchal rams,
And one good motherly old ewe,
Died on a sudden down at Kew;

Where, with the sweetest innocence, alas!
Those pretty, inoffensive lambs,

And rev'rend, horned, patriarchal rams,
And motherly old ewe, were nibbling grass;
All the fair property of our great King--
Whose death did much the royal bosom wring.

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'Twas said, that dogs had tickled them to death; Play'd with their gentle throats, and stopp'd their breath.

Like HOMER's heroes, on th' ensanguin'd plain, Stalk'd Mr. Robinson* around the slain ;

And never was more frighten'd in his life.
So shock'd was Mr. Robinson's whole face,
Not stronger horrors could have taken place,
Had Cerberus devour'd his wife!

With wild, despairing looks, and sighs,
And wet, and pity-asking eyes,

He, trembling, to the royal presence ventur'd—
White as the whitest napkin, when he enter'd!
White as the man, who sought king PRIAM's bed,
And told him, that his warlike son was dead.

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Oh! please your majesty'-he, blubb'ring, cry'dAnd then stopp'd short

What? what? what? what? (the staring King reply'd)

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Speak, Robinson, speak, speak, what, what's the hurt?'

O sire,' said Robinson again

'Speak (said the king)-put, put me out of painDon't, don't, in this suspense, a body keep'O sire!' cry'd Robinson, the sheep, the sheep!'

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What of the sheep.' reply'd the king, 'pray, prayDead, Robinson? dead? or run away?'

'Dead, (answer'd Robinson:)dead, dead, dead dead' Then, like a drooping lilly, hung his head.

How? how? the monarch ask'd, with visage sad,. 'By dogs,' said Robinson, and likely mad.'

G

*The hind.

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THE ROYAL SHEEP.

No, no. they can't be mad-they can't be mad"No, no, things ar'n't so bad-things ar❜n't so bad.” Rejoin'd the king

Off with them quick to market-quick depart; In with them, in, in with them in a cart

Sell, sell them, for as much as they will bring."
Now to Fleet-Market, driving like the wind,
Amidst his murder'd mutton, rode the hind,
All in the royal cart so great,
To try to sell the royal meat.

The news of this rare batch of lambs,
And ewe and rams,

Design'd for many a London dinner,

Reach'd the fair ears of Master Sheriff Skinner,
Who with a hammer and a conscience clear,
Gets glory, and ten thousand pounds a year:
And who, if things go tolerably fair,

Will be one day proud London's proud Lord Mayor.
The alderman was in his pulpit shining.
'Midst gentlemen, with night-caps, hair and wigs;
In language most rhetorical, defining
The sterling merit of a lot of pigs:

When suddenly the news was brought,

That in Fleet-Market, were unwholesome sheep; Which made the preacher from his pulpit leap, As nimble as a taylor, or as thought.

For justice panting, and unaw'd by fears,
This king. this emperor of auctioneers,
Set off a furious face indeed he put on-
Like lightning did he gallop up Cheapside!
Like thunder down through Ludgate did he ride,
To catch the man, who sold this dreadful mutton.
Now to Fleet-Market, full of wrath he came;
And with the spirit of an ancient Roman,

THE ROYAL SHEEP.

Exceeded, I believe, by no man,

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The alderman, so virtuous, cry'd out Shame!'
'Damme! (to Robinson, said Master Skinner)
Who on such mutton, sir, can make a dinner?
You, if you please,'

Cry'd Mr. Robinson, with perfect ease,

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Sir!' quoth the red-hot alderman again ;
You,' quoth the hind, in just the same cool strain.

'Off! off! (cry'd Skinner with your carrion heap;
• Quick, d-me, take away your nasty sheep!
Whilst I command, not e'en the king
Shall such vile stuff to market bring,
•And London stalls such garbage put on ;
'So take away your stinking mutton.'

'You (reply'd Robinson) you cry out Shame!" 'You blast the sheep, good Master Skinner, pray! You give the harmless mutton a bad name! You impudently order it away!

'Sweet Master Alderman, do n't make this rout: Clap on your spectacles upon your snout,

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And then your keen surveying eyes regale,

With those same fine large letters on the cart,
Which brought this blasted mutton here for sale.'
Poor Skinner read, and read it with a start!
Like Hamlet frighten'd at his father's ghost,
The alderman stood staring like a post;
He saw G. R. inscrib'd in handsome letters,
Which prov'd the sheep belong'd unto his betters.

The alderman now turn'd to deep reflection;
And being bless'd with proper recollection,
Exclaim'd I've made a great mistake-Oh, sad;
The sheep are really not so bad.

6

Dear Mr. Robinson, I beg your pardon;

Your Job-like patience I've born hard on ;

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THE TINKER AND GLAZIER.

Whoever says, the mutton is not good, 'Knows nothing, Mr. Robinson of food. I verily believe, I could turn glutton, On such neat, wholesome, pretty-looking mutton; Pray Mr. Robinson, the mutton sell;

I hope, sir, that his majesty is well.'

So saying, Mr. Robinson he quitted,
With cherubimic smiles, and placid brows,
For such embarrassing occasions fitted;

Adding just five and twenty humble bows.

To work went Robinson to sell the sheep,
But people would not buy, except dog-cheap;
At length the sheep were sold-without the fleece,
And brought king George just half-a-crown a piece.

THE TINKER AND GLAZIER.
A TALE.

(BY MR. HARRISON.)

SINCE Gratitude, 'tis said, is not o'er common,
And friendly acts are pretty near as few ;
And high and low, with man, and eke with woman,
With Turk, with Pagan, Christian and with Jew;
We ought, at least, whene'er we chance to find,
Of these rare qualities a slender sample,
To shew they may possess the human mind,
And try the boasted influence of example.
Who knows how far the novelty may charm?
It can't at any rate, do much harm;

The tale we give then, and we need not fear,
The moral, if there be one, will appear.

Two thirsty souls met on a sultry day,

One Glazier Dick, the other Tom the Tinker; Both with light purses, but with spirits gay,

And hard it were to name the sturdiest drinker.

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