EPIGRAM. At the supper Giles gave for Betty his bride, 85 And from the same bough on which poor Kitty died The apples were pluck'd they say; The pudding pies on it, grew deadly cold! The death watch tick'd, and the church bell toll'd! To carve the pudding was Giles's post, Popp'd the head of poor dear Kitty Maggs's ghost, Said Giles, Who be you?' said the ghost, I be I, A coming to punish your par-ju-ry!" Ding dong, bo! 'O Kitty' said Jolter, 'pray alter your note!' I von't the ghost replied; 6 When plump flew the pudding down Giles's throat, And on the spot he died. Now his ghost, once a year, bolting puddings is seen, While blue devils sing, every mouthful between, Ding dong, bo! As Thomas was cudgell'd one day by his wife, rabble; Then ventur'd to give him some wholesome advice: But Tom is a fellow of honour so nice, Too proud to take counsel, too wise to take warning, That he sent to all three a challenge next morning. He fought with all three, thrice he ventur'd his life; -Then went home and was cudgell'd again by his wife. I LORD B. AND THE EUNUCH. (PINDAR.) A LORD, most musically mad, Yet with a taste superlatively bad, Ask'd a squeal eunuch to his house one dayA poor old semivir, whose throat Had lost its love resounding note, Which art had giv'n, and time had stol'n away, 6 Signor Squalini,' with a solemn air, 6 I've got a most unlucky ear, And that 'tis known to all the music band. Fond of abuse, each fiddling coxcomb carps, And true it is, I don't know flats from sharps: 'Indeed, Signor Squalini, 'tis no hum ; So ill does music with my organs suit, 'I scarcely know a fiddle from a flute, The hautboys from the double drum. Now tho' with lords, a number of this nation, 'I go to op'ras, more through fashion Than for the love of music, I could wish The world might think I had some little taste, That those two ears were tolerably chaste, 6 But, sir, I am as stupid as a fish. Get me the credit of a cognoscente, • Gold shan't be wanting to content ye.’— 'Bravissimo! my lor,' replied Squalini, With acquiescent bow, and smile of suavity; 'De nobleman must never look de ninny,'-. 'True,' cry'd the noble lord with German gravity. LORD B. AND THE EUNUCH. My lor, ven men vant money in der purse, De do not vant de vorld to tink dem poor, Because, my lor, dat be von shabby curse; 'Dis all same ting wid ignourance, my lor.'Right,' cry'd his lordship, in a grumbling tone, Much like a mastiff jealous of his bone. 6 But first I want some technicals, signor'- 'Dat be ven singer open vide. de troat, My lor, der likewise beed cromatique, 'As if de singer vas in greef, or sick, And had de colick-dat be ver, ver fine; De high, oh, dat, musician call soprano ; De low voice, basso; de soff note, piano'Bravoura, queek, bold-here Marchesi shiné. Dis Mara, too, and Billington, do knowAllegro, queek; Adagio, be de slow; 'Pomposo, dat be manner make de roar: 'Maestoso, dat be grand and noble ting, Mush like de voice of Emperor, or de king; Or you, my lor, When in de house you make de grand oration, For save, my lor, de noble Englis nation.' Thus having giv'n his lesson, and a bow, With high complacency his lordship smil❜d: Unravell'd was his lordship's pucker'd brow, His scouling eye, like Luna's beams, so mild: Such is th' effect, when flatt'ries sweet cajole That praise-admiring wight yclep'd the soul; 87 88 LORD B. AND THE EUNUCH. And from the days of Adam 'tis the case, 6 Signor Squalini,' cry'd the lord, The op'ra is begun, upon my word'Allons, signor, and hear me-mind, 'As soon as ever you shall find 'A singer's voice above or under pitch, 'Just touch my toe, or give my arm a twitch.' 'Iss, iss, my lor, (the eunuch straight reply'd) I sheet close by your lor'ship side; And den according to your lor'ship wish, 'I give your lor'ship elbow littel twish.' Now to the opera, music's sounds to hear, Proceeded-Near the orchestra they sat, Now came an out-of-tunish note The eunuch twitch'd his lordship's coat: Full-mouth'd at once his lordship roar'd out'psha!" The orchestra, amaz'd, turn round To find from whence arose the critic sound, The eunuch kept most slily twitching, And reap'd a plenteous harvest of applause:- THE FEMALE PRATTLER. FROM morn to night, from day to day, If your own health or ours you prize; Your fame 's by your own noise obscur'd; All are distracted while they gaze, But, if they listen, they are cur'd. Your silence would acquire more praise Than all you say, or all you write; One look ten thousand charms displays; Then hush! and be an angel quite. EPIGRAM. As Quin and Foote, one day walk'd out For there is one pound one. I wonder not, says Quin, that thought Since that's the way, your debts you pay- > |