EPIGRAMMATIC SCRAPS.

"An Epigram! what is it, honey?
A little poem-short and funny,
About four lines-sometimes more,

Then this is one-for here are four."

"What is an Epigram? A dwarfish whole-
Its body brevity, and wit its soul."

"LONDON'S PROGRESSE."

In a collection of Epigrams written by Thomas Freeman, and published in quarto, in 1614, entitled "Ruband, a Great Cust," is the following prophetic one:

Why, how now, Babell, whither wilt thou build?
I see old Holborne, Charing Crosse, the Strande,
Are going to Saint Giles's-in-the-field;

Saint Katarene, she takes Wapping by the hand,
And Hogsdon will to Hygate ere 't be long;
London is got a greate way from the streame,-
I think she means to go to Islington,

To eate a dish of strawberries and creame.
The citty's sure in progresse, I surmise,
Or going to revel it in some disorder,
Without the walls, without the liberties,
Where she neede feare nor Mayor nor Recorder:
Well, say she do, 'twere pretty, yet 'tis pity,
A Middlesex Bailiff should arrest the Citty.

CONCORD AND DISCORD.

In loud debate two pilfering knaves contend,
How best, their spoils dividing, jars to end:
One concord urged-Filch said, "Let discord cease;"
A listener hinted, "Buy a cord a-piece."

SHERIDAN'S ADDRESS TO THE PRINCE.

Sheridan is said to have embodied his graver commentaries on the correspondence of the Whig Lords in 1811, in the following jeu d'esprit, "the effect of which," it is added, “in a certain quarter, may easily be imagined."

In all humility we crave

Our Regent may become our slave,
And, being so, we trust that he
Will thank us for our loyalty.

Then, if he'll help us to pull down

His father's dignity and crown,

We'll make him, in some time to come,

The greatest prince in Christendom.

ON A LADY.

No longer shall Venus, as poets have told,
With Pallas in enmity be;

For later and better, mythologists hold,
They both are united in thee.

ON BROUGHAM.

BY CANNING.

Brougham has declared to all the town,
He wished it on his tombstone writ
(Such modesty deserves renown),
"Here lies the enemy of Pitt."

So Zoilus, reviewer sage,

Perhaps had thought it no misnomer,
Had some one thus inscribed his page,
"Here lies the enemy of Homer."
Such critics surely argue right,
Wishing oblivion to shun;

For thus their names shall shine as bright
As the dark spots upon the sun.

THE ATTIC STORY.

A Student in his garret used to pore
O'er musty volumes of old Grecian lore,
Till his poor crazy head was hoary;
Plato, at morning, noon, and candle-light,
And Aristotle was his dear delight,—
The Genii of his attic story.

ON HEARING SIGNOR VELLUTI

Sing the beautiful Air of "Il di rinascerà."

That voice so sweet, so soft, so clear,
So beautiful in minstrelsy;

Oh! should some spirit hov'ring near
Its dulcet music chance to hear,
No longer then its melody
To earth alone were given;
Oft would that spirit come again,
Enamour'd of its fairy strain,
And waft each note to heaven.

ON SIR HORATIO PALAVACENI,

Who resided on his estate at Babraham, near Cambridge, and was collector of taxes to the Pope, in the reign of Mary; on whose death, and upon the change of religion that ensued, he kept the money, and afterwards lent it to Elizabeth, who knew right well how and where to use it.

Here lies Sir Horatio Palavacene,

Who robb'd the Pope to lend the Queene;

He was a thief;-a thief! thou liest!

For why? he robb'd but Antichrist.

Hym Deathe wythe besome swept from Babraham,
Into the bosome of old Abraham;

But then came Hercules with his club

And struck him down to Belzebub!

THE VICAR AND CURATE.

A vicar, long ill, who had treasur'd up wealth,
Told his curate each Sunday to pray for his health;
Which oft having done, a parishioner said,

That the curate ought rather to wish he were dead.
"By my troth," says the curate, "let credit be given,—
I never prayed for his death, but I have for his living."

THE DISTINCTION.

At public school, by chance there were two lads,
Of the same name, but boasting diff'rent dads;
One's father kept a tavern, famed for cheer,
The other's was y'clept an auctioneer;

Mistakes to end, their schoolfellows, so knowing,
Call'd the one quaintly Coming, t'other Going.

THE TOLERANT BISHOP.

Collecting my dues, when your farm-yard I enter,
It is not my custom to say,

"Do you go to church, or are you a dissenter?"
But, "Have you the money to pay?"

But, when by the doctor you're left in the lurch,
And death his commission discloses,

I ask, "Did the fellow attend to his church ?"
If you did, I say, "Toll the bell, Moses !"

But, if the Nicene ever stuck in your throat,
Or the thirty-nine articles stagger'd,

You die a dissenter,-I alter my note,

To, "Don't toll the bell for that blackguard !"

And this for a maxim I always advance,

Though my reasons I cannot unriddle,

"All those who won't fiddle when I choose to dance, When dead shall not dance to my fiddle."

THE CIRCUMNAVIGATOR.

At Goodwood, in Sussex, is the Lion, carved in wood, which adorned the head of the Centurion, the ship in which Commodore Anson sailed round the world. It is set up at the Duke of Richmond Inn, with this inscription:

Stay, traveller, awhile, and view

I, who have travell'd more than you:
Quite round the globe in each degree,
Anson and I have plough'd the sea;
Torrid and frigid zones have pass'd,
And safe ashore arriv'd at last,
In ease and dignity appear,

He in the House of Lords-I here.

ON THE PRINCE REGENT'S ABSENCE

From the Ceremony of Laying the First Stone of the Vauxhall
Bridge.

An arch wag has declar'd that he truly can say,
Why the prince did not lay the first stone t'other day:
The restrictions prevented, the reason is clear,—
The Regent can't meddle in making a pier.

ON READING AN ACCOUNT OF THE DEATH OF
MRS. ELIZABETH LIVING.

""Tis a paradox, truly," says Richard to Ned,
"For, if she is living, how can she be dead.

ON MADAME VESTRIS.

Were Madame Vestris widowed or a maid,
And I could marry all her person's riches,
I should cry off-so long she has essayed,
She would habitually wear the breeches.