In every soil behold the poison spring! The mighty Marlborough pilfered cloth and bread; And Peterborough's Earl upon this head, Affords us little room to hope, That what the Twitnam bard avowed, THE COUNTRY LASSES. PETER PINDAR. Peter lasheth the Ladies.-He turneth Story-teller.-Peter grieveth. ALTHOUGH the ladies with such beauty blaze, I heard some damsels fashionably loud; "Oh! the dear man!” cried one, "look! here's a bonnet! He shall paint me--I am determin'd on it— Lord! cousin, see! how beautiful the gown! What charming colors! here's fine lace, here's gauze ! What pretty sprigs the fellow draws! Lord, cousin! he's the cleverest man in town!" "Ay, cousin," cried a second, "very true- Cousin, this limner quickly will be seen, Such was the very pretty conversation That pass'd between the pretty misses, While unobserv'd, the glory of our nation, Close by them hung Sir Joshua's matchless pieces. Works! that a Titian's hand could form aloneWorks! that a Reubens had been proud to own. Permit me, ladies, now to lay before ye A STORY. Walking one afternoon along the Strand, "Heav'ns! my dear beauteous angels, how d'ye do? Upon my soul I'm monstrous glad to see ye." "Swinge! Peter, we are glad to meet with you; We're just to London come-well, pray how be ye; "We're just a going, while 'tis light, To see St. Paul's before 'tis dark. Lord! come, for once, be so polite, And condescend to be our spark." "With all my heart, my angels."—On we walk'd, How much that glorious structure would surprise, As near to Ludgate-Hill we drew, Gave, all at once, a diabolic squawl, As if they had been tumbled on the stones, And some confounded cart had crush'd their bones. After well fright'ning people with their cries, And sticking to a ribbon-shop their eyes, They all rush'd in, with sounds enough to stun, "Swinge! here are colors then, to please! "Here, here, are clever things-good Lord! Here, here!-look! here are beauties to delight: 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! Why we can see the church another day; Reader, If e'er thy bosom felt a thought sublime, THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS. PETER PINDAR. Peter continueth to give great Advice, and to exhibit deep reflection-He telleth a miraculous Story. THERE is a knack in doing many a thing, A fool on something great, at times, may stumble, Yes! I advise you, for there's wisdom in 't, Never to be superior to a hint The genius of each man, with keenness viewA 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."-O, 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, The knaves set off on the same day, But very diff'rent was their speed, I wot: The other limp'd, as if he had been shot. One saw the Virgin soon―peccavi cried— 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- "But, brother sinner, pray explain How 'tis that you are not in pain: What pow'r hath work'd a wonder for your toes: Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling, "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. "T WAS on a lofty vase's side, The azure flowers that blow, THOMAS GRAY. |