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They all rush'd in, with sounds enough to stun,
And clattering all together, thus begun :-
"Swinge! here are colors then, to please!

Delightful things, I vow to heav'n!
Why! not to see such things as these,

We never should have been forgiv'n.

“Here, here, are clever things—good Lord !

And, sister, here, upon my word-
Here, here !-look! here are beauties to delight:

Why! how a body's heels might dance

Along from Launceston to Penzance,
Before that one might meet with such a sight!"

Come, ladies, 't will be dark,” cried I—"I fear:
Pray let us view St. Paul's, it is so near”—
“Lord! Peter," cried the girls, “ don't mind St. Paul!
Sure! you're a most incurious soul
Why-we can see the church another day;
Don't be afraid-St. Paul's can't run away."

Reader,
If e'er thy bosom felt a thought sublime,
Drop tears of pity with the man of rhyme !

THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS.

PETER PINDAR.

Peter continueth to give great Advice, and to exbibit deep reflection-He telletb

a miraculous Story.

There is a knack in doing many a thing,
Which labor can not to perfection bring:
Therefore, however great in your own eyes,
Pray do not hints from other folks despise:

A fool on something great, at times, may stumble,

And consequently be a good adviser:
On which, forever, your wise men may fumble,

And never be a whit the wiser.

Yes! I advise you, for there's wisdom in 't,
Never to be superior to a hint-

The genius of each man, with keenness view-
A spark from this, or t'other, caught,
May kindle, quick as thought,

A glorious bonfire up in you.
A question of you let me beg-

Of fam'd Columbus and his egg,
Pray, have you heard? “Yes.”—0, then, if you please
I'll give you the two Pilgrims and the Peas.

THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS.

A TRUE STORY.

A brace of sinners, for no good,

Were order'd to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood,

And in a fair white wig look'd wondrous fine. Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel, With something in their shoes much worse than gravel: In short, their toes so gentle to amuse, The priest had order'd peas into their shoes : A nostrum famous in old Popish times For purifying souls that stunk of crimes:

A sort of apostolic salt,

Which Popish parsons for its powers exalt,
For keeping souls of sinners sweet,
Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.
The knaves set off on the same day,
Peas in their shoes, to go and pray:

But very diff'rent was their speed, I wot:
One of the sinners gallop'd on,
Swift as a bullet from a gun;

The other limp'd, as if he had been shot.
One saw the Virgin soon-peccavi cried-

Had his soul white-wash'd all so clever; Then home again he nimbly hied,

Made fit, with saints above, to live forever.

In coming back, however, let me say,
He met his brother rogue about half way-
Hobbling, with out-stretch'd hands and bending knees;
Damning the souls and bodies of the peas:
His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brows in sweat,
Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.
“How now," the light-toed, white-wash'd pilgrim broke,

“You lazy lubber!"
"Ods curse it,” cried the other, “ 'tis no joke-
My feet, once hard as any rock,

Are now as soft as any blubber.
“Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear-
As for Loretto I shall not get there;
No! to the Dev'l my sinful soul must go,
For damme if I ha'nt lost ev'ry toe.
“But, brother sinner, pray explain
How 'tis that you are not in pain:

What pow'r hath work'd a wonder for your toes :
While 1, just like a snail am crawling,
Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling,

While not a rascal comes to ease my woes ?
How is't that you can like a greyhound go,

Merry, as if that naught had happen'd, burn ye?" "Why,” cried the other, grinning, “ you must know, That just before I ventur'd on my journey,

To walk a little more at ease,
I took the liberty to boil my peas.'”

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVORITE CAT,

DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLDFISHES.

THOMAS GRAY.

'T was on a lofty vase's side,
Where China's gayest art had dyed

The azure flowers that blow,
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima, reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared ;
The fair round face, the snowy beard,

The velvet of her paws,
Her coat that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,

She saw, and purred applause.

Still had she gaz'd, but, 'midst the tide,
Two angel forms were seen to glide,

The Genii of the stream:
Their scaly armor's Tyrian hue,
Through richest purple, to the view

Betrayed a golden gleam.

The hapless nymph with wonder saw:
A whisker first, and then a claw,

With many an ardent wisii,
She stretched in vain to reach the prize:
What female heart can gold despise ?

What Cat's averse to fish ?

Presumptuous maid I with looks intent, Again she stretched, again she bent,

Nor knew the gulf between: (Malignant Fate sat by and smiled) The slippery verge her feet beguiled;

She tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the flood,
She mewed to every watery god

Some speedy aid to send.
No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred,
Nor cruel Tom or Susan heard :

A fav'rite has no friend!

From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived, Know one false step is ne'er retrieved,

And be with caution bold : Not all that tempts your wandering eyes, And heedless hearts, is lawful prize,

Nor all that glistens gold.

THE RETIRED CAT.

WILLIAM COWPER. A Poet's Cat, sedate and grave As poet well could wish to have, Was much addicted to inquire For nooks to which she might retire, And where, secure as mouse in chink, She might repose, or sit and think. I know not where she caught the trick; Nature perhaps herself had cast her In such a mold PHILOSOPHIQUE, Or else she learned it of her master. Sometimes ascending, debonair, An apple-tree, or lofty pear, Lodged with convenience in the fork, She watched the gardener at his work; Sometimes her ease and solace sought In an old empty watering-pot, There wanting nothing, save a fan, To seem some nymph in her sedan, Appareled in exactest sort, And ready to be borne to court.

But love of change it seems has place
Not only in our wiser race;
Cats also feel, as well as we,
That passion's force, and so did she.
Her climbing, she began to find,
Exposed her too much to the wind,
And the old utensil of tin
Was cold and comfortless within :
She therefore wished, instead of those,
Some place of more serene repose,
Where neither cold might come, nor air
Too rudely wanton in her hair,
And sought it in the likeliest mode
Within her master's snug abode.

A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined With linen of the softest kind,

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