What! bring the flood of Noah from the skies,
With my fine field of hay before your eyes!
A numskull, that I wer'n't of this aware.-
Curse me but I had stopped your pretty prayer!"
"Dear Mister Jay?" quoth Lamb, “alas! alas!
I never thought upon your field of grass."

"Lord! parson, you 're a fool, one might suppose-
Was not the field just underneath your nose?
This is a very pretty losing job!"—

Sir," quoth the curate, "know that Harry Cobb Your brother warden joined, to have the prayer.""Cobb! Cobb! why this for Cobb was only sport: What doth Cobb own that any rain can hurt?" Roared furious Jay as broad as he could stare.

"The fellow owns, as far as I can larn,

A few old houses only, and a barn;

As that's the case, zounds! what are showers to him? Not Noah's flood could make his trumpery swim.

"Besides-why could you not for drizzle pray?
Why force it down in buckets on the hay?
Would I have played with your hay such a freak?
No! I'd have stopped the weather for a week."

"Dear Mister Jay, I do protest,

I acted solely for the best;

I do affirm it, Mister Jay, indeed.

Your anger for this once restrain,

I'll never bring a drop again

Till you and all the parish are agreed."

As want of candor really is not right,

PETER PINDAR.

I own my satire too inclined to bite :
On kings behold it breakfast, dine, and sup―
Now shall she praise, and try to make it up.

Why will the simple world expect wise things,
From lofty folk, particularly kings?

Look on their poverty of education!
Adored and flattered, taught that they are gods,
And by their awful frowns and nods,

Jove-like, to shake the pillars of creation!

They scorn that little useful imp called mind,
Who fits them for the circle of mankind!
Pride their companion, and the world their hate;
Immured, they doze in ignorance and state.

Sometimes, indeed, great kings will condescend
A little with their subjects to unbend!

An instance take:-A king of this great land,
In days of yore, we understand,

Did visit Salisbury's old church so fair:

An Earl of Pembroke was the Monarch's guide;
Incog. they traveled, shuffling side by side;

And into the cathedral stole the pair.

The verger met them in his blue silk gown,
And humbly bowed his neck with reverence down,
Low as an ass to lick a lock of hay:

Looking the frightened verger through and through,
And with his eye-glass-" Well, sir, who are you?
What, what, sir?-hey, sir ?" deigned the king to say.

I am the verger here, most mighty king:
In this cathedral I do every thing;

Sweep it, an't please ye, sir, and keep it clean."

'Hey? verger! verger!—you the verger?—hey?

"Yes, please your glorious majesty, I be,"

The verger answered, with the mildest mien.

Then turned the king about toward the peer,

And winked, and laughed, then whispered in his ear,
"Hey, hey-what, what-fine fellow, 'pon my word:
I'll knight him, knight him, knight him-hey, my lord ?"

[It is a satire-royal: and if any thing were yet wanting to convince us that Master Pindar is no turncoat, here is proof sufficient.]

Then with his glass, as hard as eye could strain,
He kenned the trembling verger o'er again.

"He's a poor verger, sire," his lordship cried: "Sixpence would handsomely requite him."

"Poor verger, verger, hey?" the king replied:

"No, no, then, we won't knight him-no, won't knight him."

Now to the lofty roof the king did raise

His glass, and skipped it o'er with sounds of praise !
For thus his marveling majesty did speak :
"Fine roof this, Master Verger, quite complete;
High-high and lofty too, and clean, and neat:

What, verger, what? mop, mop it once a week?”

"An't please your majesty," with marveling chops, The verger answered, "we have got no mops

In Salisbury that will reach so high." "Not mop, no, no, not mop it," quoth the king— "No, sir, our Salisbury mops do no such thing; They might as well pretend to scrub the sky."

MORAL.

This little anecdote doth plainly show

That ignorance, a king too often lurches ;
For, hid from art, Lord! how should monarchs know
The natural history of mops and churches?

STORY THE SECOND.

From Salisbury church to Wilton House, so grand,
Returned the mighty ruler of the land—

"My lord, you've got fine statues," said the king.
A few! beneath your royal notice, sir,"

Replied Lord Pembroke-" Sir, my lord, stir, stir;
Let's see them all, all, all, all, every thing.

"Who's this? who's this?-who's this fine fellow here?"

(6 'Sesostris," bowing low, replied the peer.

"Sir Sostris, hey?-Sir Sostris ?—'pon my word!

Knight or a baronet, my lord?

One of my making ?-what, my lord, my making?"
This, with a vengeance, was mistaking?

"Se-sostris, sire," so soft, the peer replied—
"A famous king of Egypt, sir, of old.”
"Oh, poh!" th' instructed monarch snappish cried,
"I need not that-I need not that be told."

"Pray, pray, my lord, who's that big fellow there ?"
""Tis Hercules," replies the shrinking peer;
"Strong fellow, hey, my lord? strong fellow, hey?
Cleaned stables!—cracked a lion like a flea;

Killed snakes, great snakes, that in a cradle found him-
The queen, queen's coming! wrap an apron around him."

Our moral is not merely water-gruel

It shows that curiosity's a jewel!

It shows with kings that ignorance may dwell:
It shows that subjects must not give opinions
To people reigning over wide dominions,

As information to great folk is hell:

It shows that decency may live with kings,

On whom the bold virtu-men turn their backs; And shows (for numerous are the naked things) That saucy statues should be lodged in sacks.

ODE TO THE DEVIL.

The devil is not so black as he is painted.

Ingratum Odi.

PRINCE of the dark abodes! I ween

Your highness ne'er till now hath seen

Yourself in meter shine;

Ne'er heard a song with praise sincere,
Sweet warbled on your smutty ear,
Before this Ode of mine.

PETER PINDAR.

Perhaps the reason is too plain,
Thou triest to starve the tuneful train,

Of potent verse afraid!

And yet I vow, in all my time,
I've not beheld a single rhyme

That ever spoiled thy trade.

I've often read those pious whims-
John Wesley's sweet damnation hymns,
That chant of heavenly riches.

What have they done?-those heavenly strains,
Devoutly squeezed from canting brains,
But filled John's earthly breeches?

There's not a shoe-black in the land,
So humbly at the world's command,
As thy old cloven foot;

Like lightning dost thou fly, when called,
And yet no pickpocket's so mauled
As thou, O Prince of Soot!

What thousands, hourly bent on sin,
With supplication call thee in,

To aid them to pursue it;
Yet, when detected, with a lie
Ripe at their fingers' ends, they cry,
"The Devil made me do it."

Behold the fortunes that are made,
By men through rouguish tricks in trade,
Yet all to thee are owing-
And though we meet it every day,
The sneaking rascals dare not say,
This is the Devil's doing.

As to thy company, I'm sure,
No man can shun thee on that score;
The very best is thine:

With kings, queens, ministers of state,
Lords, ladies, I have seen thee great,
And many a grave divine.