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It must have charmed the Siam Saddlers, * This doubling on the Malthus Twaddlers !

But, ah !--the worst's to come !—for Fate
Her boon with bane will ever mate,
And often with her childish antics
The fairest hope of mortal man tricks ;
So now she, by a bony tether,
Joined breast to breast-our Twins together.

This freak of Mrs. Fate's, I fear,

Would nowhere give much satisfaction, But really-as enacted here

It was a most flagitious action.
For—reader—not like us! the way

At Bancok's always to look down on
Whatever Nature may betray

The smallest pre-resolve to frown on.

I leave you to conceive the scene !
The Siam-parson's face serene:
(Parsons possess in every nation
That greatest virtue, resignation !

* Mr. Sadler, on whom his godfathers bestowed the most just of all epithets by the most prophetic of all initials-Mr. M. T. (commonly pronounced Empty) Sadler, has lately published a book in opposition to the followers of Malthus ; the size of it is very remarkable.

They also boast---there's no concealing--
A very liberal turn of feeling,
Which makes that virtue always shown
To your afflictions--not their own!)
The witch-read midwife's hint of awe;
The posed look of the man of law;
The wonder of the startled nurses ;
And the smote father's stifled curses,--
Until at length he sinks him down,
With moving lip, but moveless frown;
Familiar footsteps paśs him by-
Their forms are glassed not on his eye;
And voices merge in clamour near;
But sense lies locked within his ear.

So sate he in a marble grieving--
The comic of the crowd relieving;
And, proving the old dogma wrong,
That nought of grief can well belong*
To scenes where gayer verse makes rife
The humour and the farce of life.

Meanwhile, of course, with kindly chatter,
Comes half the town to learn the matter;
His lunch—(cold pigt)-the gourmand quits,
The very cooks desert their spits,

* Aristot. de Poetica, sect. xi. † Pig and ducks are the favourite food of the Siamese.

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The Ava soldier bred to dangers,
The Cochinese who lives on strangers, –
“So great the infection soft”-have caught it,
And cry—“Poor Fiam! who'd have thought it ?"

Though all unravel-no one blạmés
The small hypocrisies of names
When Grief's so great we're really dumb for’t,
Garrulity is christened “ Comfort !"
And all the Paul Prys of the city
Indulge their vice, and style it—“Pity!"

-But on a couch all uncarest

The new-born Infants lay,
And not one dusky gossip blest

Their entrance into day.
And yet no rude or vulgar grace

You might in their repose descry,
And each to each in close embrace

They nestled tenderly.

As if they felt the rude world round
Already on their being frown’d,
And knew that some strange spell had hung
A blot

name,
Yet made the tie to which they clung

No less their shelter than their shame!

upon a brother's

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