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EPIGRAM.

At the supper Giles gave for Betty his bride,
An apple pudding had they,

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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!
Ding dong, bo!

To carve the pudding was Giles's post,
He cut. and from the gap, -

Popp'd the head of poor dear Kitty Maggs's ghost,
All in a new fashion'd shroud cap:

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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;

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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!

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As Thomas was cudgell'd one day by his wife,
He took to his heels and he ran for his life.
Tom's three dearest friends came by in the squabble
And screen'd him at once from the shrew and the

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,
The lord began, grave rising from his chair,
Taking Squalini kindly by the hand;
'Signor Squalini, much I fear

6 I've got a most unlucky ear,

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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,

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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,

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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'-
Bowing, the eunuch answer'd—'Iss, my lor; .
I teash your lorship queekly, queekly, all,
Dere vat be call de sostenuto note,

'Dat be ven singer open vide. de troat,
"And den for long time make de squawl-
'Mush long, long note, dat do continue vile
A man, my lor, can valk a mile.

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;

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LORD B. AND THE EUNUCH.

And from the days of Adam 'tis the case,
That great's the sympathy 'twixt soul and face.

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,
The old castrato and the noble peer

Proceeded-Near the orchestra they sat,
Before the portals of the singers' throats!
The critic couple musing for bad notes,
With all the keenness of a hungry cat.

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,
When, lo! they heard the lord, and saw!

The eunuch kept most slily twitching,
His frowning lordship all the while,
(Not in the cream of courtly style)
Be-dogging this poor singer, that be-bitching,
Uniting too, a host of damning pshas,

And reap'd a plenteous harvest of applause:-
Grew from that hour a lord of tuneful skill,
And tho' the eunuch's dead, remains so still.

THE FEMALE PRATTLER.

FROM morn to night, from day to day,
At all times, and in ev'ry place,
You scold, repeat, and sing and say,
Nor are there hopes you 'll ever cease.
Forbear, my Fannia; oh, forbear,

If your own health or ours you prize;
For all mankind that bear you, swear
Your tongue's more killing than your eyes.
Your tongue's a traitor to your face,

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
To view the country round,
In merry mood, they chatting stood
Hard by the village-pound.
Foote from his poke a shilling took,
And said, I'll bet a penny,
In a short space, within this place,
I'll make this piece a guinea.
Upon the ground, within the pound,
The shilling soon was thrown;
Behold, says Foote, the thing's made out,

For there is one pound one.

I wonder not, says Quin, that thought
Should in your head be found,

Since that's the way, your debts you pay-
One shilling in the pound.

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