The tear-drop in his little eye again began to spring,

His bosom throbb'd with agony-he cried like any thing!
I stoop'd, and thus amidst his sobs I heard him murmur-"Ah!
I haven't got no supper! and I haven't got no Ma'! !—

"My father, he is on the seas,-my mother's dead and gone!
And I am here, on this here pier, to roam the world alone;
I have not had, this live-long day, one drop to cheer my heart,
Nor 'brown' to buy a bit of bread with,--let alone a tart.

"If there's a soul will give me food, or find me in employ, By day or night, then blow me tight!" (he was a vulgar Boy;) "And now I'm here, from this here pier it is my fixed intent To jump, as Mr. Levi did from off the Monu-ment!”

“Cheer up! cheer up! my little man-cheer up!" I kindly said, You are a naughty boy to take such things into your head: If you should jump from off the pier, you'd surely break your

legs,

Perhaps your neck-then Bogey'd have you, sure as eggs are eggs!

"Come home with me, my little man, come home with me and

sup;

My landlady is Mrs. Jones-we must not keep her up— There's roast potatoes on the fire,-enough for me and you— Come home,—you little vulgar Boy-I lodge at Number 2."

แ

I took him home to Number 2, the house beside "The Foy," I bade him wipe his dirty shoes,--that little vulgar Boy,And then I said to Mistress Jones, the kindest of her sex,

Pray be so good as go and fetch a pint of double X!”

But Mrs. Jones was rather cross, she made a little noise,
She said she "did not like to wait on little vulgar Boys."
She with her apron wiped the plates, and, as she rubb'd the delf,
Said I might "go to Jericho, and fetch my beer myself!"

I did not go to Jericho--I went to Mr. Cobb

I changed a shilling-(which in town the people call "a Bob")—
It was not so much for myself as for that vulgar child—
And I said, "A pint of double X, and please to draw it mild!”

When I came back I gazed about-I gazed on stool and chair-
I could not see my little friend--because he was not there!
I peep'd beneath the table-cloth--beneath the sofa too—
I said "You little vulgar Boy! why what's become of you?"

I could not see my table-spoons—I look'd, but could not see
The little fiddle-pattern'd ones I use when I'm at tea;
-I could not see my sugar-tongs-my silver watch-oh, dear!
I know 't was on the mantle-piece when I went out for beer.

I could not see my Mackintosh!—it was not to be seen! Nor yet my best white beaver hat, broad-brimm'd and lined with green;

My carpet-bag-my cruet-stand, that holds my sauce and soy,— My roast potatoes!--all are gone !-and so 's that vulgar Boy!

I rang the bell for Mrs. Jones, for she was down below, "Oh, Mrs. Jones! what do you think?-ain't this a pretty go? -That horrid little vulgar Boy whom I brought here to-night, -He's stolen my things and run away! !"-Says she, “And sarve you right! !"

Next morning I was up betimes-I sent the Crier round,
All with his bell and gold-laced hat, to say I'd give a pound
To find that little vulgar Boy, who'd gone and used me so;
But when the Crier cried "O Yes!" the people cried, “O No!"

I went to "Jarvis' Landing-place," the glory of the town,
There was a common sailor-man a-walking up and down;
I told my tale—he seem'd to think I'd not been treated well,
And called me "Poor old Buffer!" what that means I cannot tell.

That sailor-man, he said he 'd seen that morning on the shore,
A son of—something-'t was a name I'd never heard before,
A little "gallows-looking chap"-dear me; what could he mean?
With a "carpet-swab” and “muckingtogs," and a hat turned up

with green.

He spoke about his "precious eyes," and said he'd seen him "sheer,"

-It's very odd that sailor-men should talk so very queer—
And then he hitch'd his trowsers up, as is, I'm told, their use,
-It's very odd that sailor-men should wear those things so loose.

I did not understand him well, but think he meant to say
He'd seen that little vulgar Boy, that morning swim away
In Captain Large's Royal George about an hour before,

And they were now, as he supposed, "somewheres” about ine
Nore.

A landsman said, "I twig the chap—he's been upon the Mill— And 'cause he gammons so the flats, ve calls him Veeping Bill!" He said "he'd done me wery brown," and "nicely stow'd the swag."

-That's French, I fancy, for a hat-or else a carpet-bag.

I went and told the constable my property to track;

He asked me if "I did not wish that I might get it back ?"

I answered, “To be sure I do!—it's what I come about.”
He smiled and said, "Sir, does your mother know that you are

out?"

Not knowing what to do, I thought I'd hasten back to town, And beg our own Lord Mayor to catch the Boy who'd "done me brown."

His Lordship very kindly said he'd try and find him out,

But he "rather thought that there were several vulgar boys about."

He sent for Mr. Whithair then, and I described "the swag,"
My Mackintosh, my sugar-tongs, my spoons, and carpet-bag ;
He promised that the New Police should all their powers employ;
But never to this hour have I beheld that vulgar Boy!

MORAL.

Remember, then, what when a boy I've heard my Grandma' tell, "BE WARN'D IN TIME BY OTHERS' HARM, AND YOU SHALL DO FULL

WELL!"

Don't link yourself with vulgar folks, who've got no fix'd abode, Tell lies, use naughty words, and say they "wish they may be

blow'd!"

Don't take too much of double X!--and don't at night go out
To fetch your beer yourself, but make the pot-boy bring your

stout!

And when you go to Margate next, just stop and ring the bell, Give my respects to Mrs. Jones, and say I'm pretty well!

THE GHOST.

R. HARRIS BARHAM

THERE stands a City,-neither large nor small,

Its air and situation sweet and pretty;

It matters very little--if at all

Whether its denizens are dull or witty, Whether the ladies there are short or tall,

Brunettes or blondes, only, there stands a city !— Perhaps 'tis also requisite to minute

That there's a Castle, and a Cobbler in it.

A fair Cathedral, too, the story goes,

And kings and heroes lie entombed within her;

There pious Saints, in marble pomp repose,

Whose shrines are worn by knees of many a Sinner; There, too, full many an Aldermanic nose

Roll'd its loud diapason after dinner;

And there stood high the holy sconce of Becket,

-Till four assassins came from France to crack it.

The Castle was a huge and antique mound,
Proof against all th' artillery of the quiver,

Ere those abominable guns were found,

To send cold lead through gallant warrior's liver. It stands upon a gently rising ground,

Sloping down gradually to the river,

Resembling (to compare great things with smaller)
A well-scooped, moldy Stilton cheese—but taller.

The Keep, I find, 's been sadly alter'd lately,
And 'stead of mail-clad knights, of honor jealous,

In martial panoply so grand and stately,

Its walls are filled with money-making fellows,

And stuff'd, unless I'm misinformed greatly,

With leaden pipes, and coke, and coal, and bellows; In short, so great a change has come to pass, 'Tis now a manufactory of Gas. 6*

But to my tale.—Before this profanation,

And ere its ancient glories were cut short all,
A poor hard-working Cobbler took his station
In a small house, just opposite the portal;
His birth, his parentage, and education,

I know but little of-a strange, odd mortal;
His aspect, air, and gait, were all ridiculous;
His name was Mason-he'd been christened Nicholas.

Nick had a wife possessed of many a charm,

And of the Lady Huntingdon persuasion ; But, spite of all her piety, her arm

She'd sometimes exercise when in a passion; And, being of a temper somewhat warm,

Would now and then seize, upon small occasion, A stick, or stool, or any thing that round did lie, And baste her lord and master most confoundedly.

No matter;-'tis a thing that's not uncommon,

'Tis what we all have heard, and most have read of,— I mean, a bruising, pugilistic woman,

Such as I own I entertain a dread of,

-And so did Nick,-whom sometimes there would come on

A sort of fear his Spouse might knock his head off, Demolish half his teeth, or drive a rib in,

She shone so much in "facers" and in "fibbing."

"There's time and place for all things," said a sage
(King Solomon, I think), and this I can say,
Within a well-roped ring, or on a stage,
Boxing may be a very pretty Fancy,
When Messrs. Burke or Bendigo engage;

'Tis not so well in Susan or in Nancy:-
To get well mill'd by any one's an evil,
But by a lady-'tis the very Devil.

And so thought Nicholas, whose only trouble

(At least his worst) was this, his rib's propensity; For sometimes from the ale-house he would hobble, His senses lost in a sublime immensity

Of cogitation-then he could n't cobble

And then his wife would often try the density Of his poor skull, and strike with all her might, As fast as kitchen wenches strike a light.