In ships of war, on Sunday's, prayers are given; Where, if they find no brandy to get drunk, Then vow they to th' Almighty to reform, In calms, indeed, or gentle airs, They ne'er on weekdays pester heaven with prayers; For 'tis among the Jacks a common saying, "Where there's no danger, there's no need of praying." One Sunday morning all were met To hear the parson preach and pray, All but a boy, who, willing to forget That prayers were handing out, had stolen away, And, thinking praying but a useless task, Had crawled to take a nap, into a cask. The boy was soon found missing, and full soon Gave him a clawing to some tune— This cat's a cousin Germain to the Knout. "Come out, you skulking dog," the boatswain cried, And turned him like a badger from his hole. Sulky the boy marched on, and did not mind him, BIENSEANCE. THERE is a little moral thing in France, Called by the natives bienseance; PETER PINDAR. Much are the English mob inclined to scout it, To bienseance 'tis tedious to incline, In many cases; To flatter, par example, keep smooth faces When kicked, or suffering grievous want of coin. To vulgars, bienseance may seem an oddity— A sort of magic wand; Which, if 'tis used with ingenuity, Although a utensil of much tenuity, In place of something solid, it will stand. For verily I've marveled times enow Which Frenchmen have rewarded with a bow. Bows are a bit of bienseance Much practiced too in that same France: THE PETIT MAITRE, AND THE MAN ON THE WHEEL. At Paris some time since, a murdering man, A German, and a most unlucky chap, The bungler was condemned to grace the wheel, His limbs secundum artem to be broke A flippant petit maitre skipping by, Stepped up to him, and checked him for his cry "Boh!" quoth the German, "an't I 'pon de wheel? D'ye tink my nerfs and bons can't feel?" "Sir," quoth the beau, " don't, don't be in a passion; I've naught to say about your situation; But making such a hideous noise in France, KINGS AND COURTIERS. PETER PINDAR. How pleasant 'tis the courtier clan to see! So prompt to drop to majesty the knee; And, if expectant of some high employ, How rich the incense to the royal nose! How liquidly the oil of flattery flows! But should the monarch turn from sweet to sour, How altered instantly the courtier clan! How faint! how pale! how woe-begone, and wan! Thus Corydon, betrothed to Delia's charms, In maddening fancy, cheeks, eyes, lips devours; In rich luxuriance o'er a breast of snow, Night, too, entrances-slumber brings the dream— Bids the wild heart, high panting, swell its stream, But if his nymph unfortunately frowns, Sad, chapfallen, lo! he hangs himself or drowns! Oh, try with bliss his moments to beguile: Strive not to make your sovereign frown-but smile: Sublime are royal nods-most precious things!- To have him lean familiar on one's shoulder, A heart of very stone must grow quite glad. The excess of joy would nearly make me mad! Blessed, I should make this coat my coat of arms, And show my children's children o'er and o'er; Here"-pointing to the shoulder-I should say, "Here majesty's own hand so sacred lay” Then p'rhaps repeat some speech the king might utter; As-"Peter, how go sheep a score? what? what? What's cheapest meat to make a bullock fat? Hæ? he? what, what's the price of country butter ?" Then should I, strutting, give myself an air, And deem myself adorned with immortality: Poor lost America, high honors missing, Knows naught of smile, and nod, and sweet hand-kissing; Knows naught of golden promises of kings; Knows naught of coronets, and stars, and strings; In solitude the lovely rebel sighs! But vainly drops the penitential tear Deaf as the adder to the woman's cries, We suffer not her wail to wound our ear: For food we bid her hopeless children prowl, And with the savage of the desert howl. PRAYING FOR RAIN. How difficult, alas! to please mankind! PETER PINDAR. Some pray for rain, and some for frost and snow: Good Lamb, the curate, much approved, Was one dry summer begged to pray for rain: The powers of prayer were soon displayed; It chanced that the church warden, Robin Jay, Thus was his hay to health quite past restoring. He sought the parson, like a lion roaring. "Zounds! Parson Lamb, why, what have you been doing? A pretty storm, indeed, ye have been brewing! What! pray for rain before I saved my hay! Oh! you're a cruel and ungrateful man! I that forever help you all I can; Ask you to dine with me and Mistress Jay, "Send you a goose, a pair of chicken, You that were welcome to a treat, "You, parson, serve one such a scurvy trick! Zounds! you must have the bowels of Old Nick. |