Which got proportionably spare and skinny
Meanwhile the neighbors cried "Poor Mary Ann!
She can't get over it! she never can!”

When, lo! to prove each prophet was a ninny,
The one that died was the poor wet-nurse Jenny.

To aggravate the case,

There were but two grown donkeys in the place;
And, most unluckily for Eve's sick daughter,
The other long-eared creature was a male,
Who never in his life had given a pail

Of milk, or even chalk and water.

No matter at the usual hour of eight
Down trots a donkey to the wicket-gate,
With Mister Simon Gubbins on his back,-
"Your sarvant, Miss, a werry spring-like day,
Bad time for hasses, though! good lack! good lack!
Jenny be dead, Miss,

He doesn't give no milk

So runs the story,

but I'ze brought ye Jack,

And, in vain self-glory,

but he can bray.”

Some Saints would sneer at Gubbins for his blindness;

But what the better are their pious saws

To ailing souls, than dry hee-haws, Without the milk of human kindness ?

A TABLE OF ERRATA.

(Hostess loquitur.)

WELL! thanks be to Heaven,

The summons is given ;

It's only gone seven,

And should have been six;

There's fine overdoing
In roasting and stewing,
And victuals past chewing
To rags and to sticks!

How dreadfully chilly!
I shake, willy-nilly;
That John is so silly,

And never will learn
This plate is a cold one,
That cloth is an old one,
I wish they had told one
The lamp wouldn't burn.

Now then for some blunder
For nerves to sink under:
I never shall wonder,

Whatever goes ill.

That fish is a riddle!

It's broke in the middle.

A Turbot! a fiddle!

It's only a Brill !

It's quite over-boiled too,
The butter is oiled too,

The soap is all spoiled too,
It's nothing but slop.
The smelts looking flabby,
The soles are as dabby,
It all is so shabby

That Cook shall not stop!

As sure as the morning,
She gets a month's warning,
My orders for scorning-

There's nothing to eat!

I hear such a rushing,
I feel such a flushing,
I know I am blushing
As red as a beet!

Friends flatter and flatter,
I wish they would chatter ;
What can be the matter

That nothing comes next?
How very unpleasant!
Lord! there is the pheasant!
Not wanted at present,

I'm born to be vext!

The pudding brought on too,
And aiming at ton too!
And where is that John too,

The plague that he is? He's off on some ramble: And there is Miss Campbell, Enjoying the scramble, Detestable Quiz!

The veal they all eye it,
But no one will try it,

An Ogre would shy it

So rudely as that! And as for the mutton, The cold dish it's put on Converts to a button

Each drop of the fat.

The beef without mustard!

My fate's to be flustered,

And there comes the custard

To eat with the hare!

Such flesh, fowl, and fishing,
Such waiting and dishing,
I cannot help wishing

A woman might swear!

O dear! did I ever
But no, I did never
Well, come, that is clever,
To send up the brawn!
That Cook, I could scold her,
Gets worse as she's older;
I wonder who told her

That woodcocks are drawn!

It's really audacious !
I cannot look gracious!
Lord help the voracious

That came for a cram !
There's Alderman Fuller
Gets duller and duller.
Those fowls, by the color,

Were boiled with the ham!

Well, where is the curry?

I'm all in a flurry.

No, Cook's in no hurry

A stoppage again!

And John makes it wider,

A pretty provider!

By bringing up cider

Instead of champagne !

My troubles come faster!
There's my lord and master
Detects each disaster,

And hardly can sit :

He cannot help seeing,
All things disagreeing
If he begins d-ing

I'm off in a fit!

This cooking?-it's messing E
The spinach wants pressing,
And salads în dressing

Are best with good eggs.
And John-yes, already -
Has had something heady,
That makes him unsteady
In keeping his legs..

How shall I get through it P
I never can do it,

I'm quite looking to it,

To sink by and by.

O! would I were dead now,

Or up in my bed now,

"Glorious Apollo from on high behold us." — Old Song.

As latterly I chanced to pass

A Public House, from which, alas !
The Arms of Oxford dangle!

My ear was startled by a din,

That made me tremble in my skin,
A dreadful hubbub from within,
Of voices in a wrangle