He applied the right bait, and with flattery he caught her; With flatt'ry a female's a fish out of water.

The state of her heart when the barber once guess'd,
Love's siege with redoubled exertion he press'd,
And as briskly bestirr'd him, the charmer embracing,
As the wash-ball that dances and froths in the basin.

The flame to allay their bosoms did so burn,

They set out for the church of St. Andrew in Holborn, Where tonsors and trulls, country Dicks and their cousins, In the halter of wedlock are tied up by dozens.

The nuptials to grace came from every quarter,
The worthies at Rag Fair old caxons who barter,
Who the coverings of judges and counsellors robs :
Cut down into majors, queues, scratches, and bobs.

Muscle-mongers and oyster-men, crimps and coal-heavers, And butchers, with marrow-bones smiting their cleavers : Shrimp-scalders and mole-catchers, tailors and tilers, Boys, botchers, bawds, bailiffs, and black-pudding boilers.

From their voices united such melody flow'd

As the Abbey ne'er witness'd, nor Tott'nham-court Road ; While St. Andrew's bells did so loud and so clear ring, You'd given ten pound to 've been out of their hearing.

For his fee, when the parson this couple had join'd,
As no cash was forthcoming, he took it in kind :
So the bridegroom dismantled his reverence's chin,
And the bride entertain'd him with pilchards and gin.

HERE lived, as Fame reports, in days of yore,
At least some fifty years ago, or more,

A pleasant wight on Town, yclep'd Tom King,
A fellow that was clever at a joke,

Expert in all the arts to teaze and smoke,

In short, for strokes of humour, quite the thing.

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To many a jovial club this King was known,
With whom his active wit unrivall'd shone :

Choice spirit, grave free-mason, buck and blood,
Would crowd his stories and bon mots to hear,
And none a disappointment e'er could fear,
His humour flow'd in such a copious flood.

To him રી frolic was a high delight:

A frolic he would hunt for, day and night,

Careless how prudence on the sport might frown.

If e'er a pleasant mischief sprang to view,
At once o'er hedge and ditch away he flew,
Nor left the game, till he had run it down.

One night, our hero, rambling with a friend,
Near famed St. Giles's chanced his course to bend,
Just by that spot, the Seven Dials hight.
'Twas silence all around, and clear the coast,
The watch, as usual, dozing on his post,

And scarce a lamp display'd a twinkling light.

Around this place, there lived the numerous clans

Of honest, plodding, foreign artizans,

Known, at that time, by name of refugees. The rod of persecution, from their home,

Compell'd the inoffensive race to roam,

And here they lighted, like a swarm of bees.

Well! our two friends were saunt'ring through the street,

In hopes some food for humour soon to meet,

When, in a window near, a light they view;
And, though a dim and melancholy ray,
It seem'd the prologue to some merry play,
So tow'rds the gloomy dome our hero drew.

Straight at the door he gave a thund'ring knock, (The time we may suppose near two o'clock,)

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"I'll ask," says King, "if Thompson lodges here."

Thompson," cries t'other, "who the devil's he?"

"I know not," King replies, "but want to see What kind of animal will now appear."

After some time, a little Frenchman came;
One hand display'd a rushlight's trembling flame,
The other held a thing they call'd culotte,
An old striped woollen night-cap graced his head,
A tatter'd waistcoat o'er one shoulder spread;
Scarce half awake, he heaved a yawning note.

Though thus untimely roused he courteous smiled,
And soon address'd our wag in accents mild,

Bending his head politely to his knee-
"Pray, sare, vat vant you, dat you come so late;
I beg your pardon, sare, to make you vait;

Pray tell me, sare, vat your commands vid me?”

"Sir," reply'd King, " I merely thought to know, As by your house I chanced to-night to go,

(But, really, I disturb'd your sleep, I fear,) I say, I thought, that you perhaps could tell, Among the folks who in this quarter dwell,

If there's a Mr. Thompson lodges here?"

The shiv'ring Frenchman, though not pleased to find The business of this unimportant kind,

Too simple to suspect 'twas meant in jeer, Shrugg'd out a sigh that thus his rest was broke, Then, with unalter'd courtesy, he spoke:

"No, sare, no Monsieur Tonson lodges here."

Our wag begg'd pardon, and toward home he sped,
While the poor Frenchman crawl'd again to bed.

But King resolved not thus to drop the jest,
So, the next night, with more of whim than grace,
Again he made a visit to the place,

To break once more the poor old Frenchman's rest.

He knock'd—but waited longer than before;
No footstep seem'd approaching to the door;

Our Frenchman lay in such a sleep profound.
King with the knocker thunder'd then again,
Firm on his post determined to remain ;

And oft, indeed, he made the door resound.

At last King hears him o'er the passage creep,
Wond'ring what fiend again disturb'd his sleep :
The wag salutes him with a civil leer:
Thus drawling out to heighten the surprize,
While the poor Frenchman rubb'd his heavy eyes,
“Is there—a Mr. Thompson--lodges here?”

The Frenchman falter'd, with a kind of fright,—
“ Vy, sare, I'm sure I told you, sare, last night—
(And here he labour'd with a sigh sincere,)
"No Monsieur Tonson in the varld I know,
No Monsieur Tonson here--I told you so;
Indeed, sare, dare no Monsieur Tonson here!"

Some more excuses tender'd, off King goes,
And the old Frenchman sought once more repose.

The rogue next night pursued his old career. 'Twas long indeed before the man came nigh, And then he utter'd, in a piteous cry,

"Sare, 'pon my soul, no Monsieur Tonson here!"