So he bought the newspaper, and no news

At all for his money he had.

Lying varlet, thought he, thus to take in old Nick! But it's some satisfaction, my lad,

To know thou art paid beforehand for the trick, For the sixpence I gave thee is bad.

And then it came into his head

By oracular inspiration,

That what he had seen and what he had said

In the course of this visitation,

Would be published in the Morning Post
For all this reading nation.

Therewith in second sight he saw

The place and the manner and time,

In which this mortal story

Would be put in immortal rhyme.

That it would happen when two poets
Should on a time be met,
In the town of Nether Stowey,

In the shire of Somerset.

There while the one was shaving

Would he the song begin;

And the other when he heard it at breakfast,
In ready accord join in.

So each would help the other,
Two heads being better than one;
And the phrase and conceit

Would in unison meet,

And so with glee the verse flow free,
In ding-dong chime of sing-song rhyme,
Till the whole were merrily done.

And because it was set to the razor,
Not to the lute or harp,

Therefore it was that the fancy

Should be bright, and the wit be sharp.

But, then, said Satan to himself,
As for that said beginner,
Against my infernal Majesty,
There is no greater sinner.

He hath put me in ugly ballads
With libelous pictures for sale;

He hath scoff'd at my hoofs and my horns,
And has made very free with my tail.

But this Mister Poet shall find

I am not a safe subject for whim; For I'll set up a School of my own, And my Poets shall set upon him.

He went to a coffee-house to dine,

And there he had soy in his dish; Having ordered some soles for his dinner, Because he was fond of flat fish.

They are much to my palate, thought he, And now guess the reason who can, Why no bait should be better than place, When I fish for a Parliament-man.

But the soles in the bill were ten shillings;
Tell your master, quoth he, what I say;
If he charges at this rate for all things,
He must be in a pretty good way.

But mark ye, said he to the waiter,
I'm a dealer myself in this line,
And his business, between you and me,
Nothing like so extensive as mine.

Now soles are exceedingly cheap,

Which he will not attempt to deny, When I see him at my fish-market, warrant him, by-and-by.

As he went along the Strand

Between three in the morning and four He observed a queer-looking person Who staggered from Perry's door.

And he thought that all the world over
In vain for a man you might seek,
Who could drink more like a Trojan
Or talk more like a Greek.

The Devil then he prophesied

It would one day be matter of talk,
That with wine when smitten,

And with wit moreover being happily bitten,
The erudite bibber was he who had written
The story of this walk.

A pretty mistake, quoth the Devil;
A pretty mistake I opine!

I have put many ill thoughts in his mouth,
He will never put good ones in mine.

And whoever shall say that to Porson
These best of all verses belong,
He is an untruth-telling whore-son,
And so shall be call'd in the song.

And if seeking an illicit connection with fame,
Any one else should put in a claim,

In this comical competition;

That excellent poem will prove

A man-trap for such foolish ambition,

Where the silly rogue shall be caught by the leg, And exposed in a second edition.

Now the morning air was cold for him
Who was used to a warm abode;
And yet he did not immediately wish,
To set out on his homeward road.

For he had some morning calls to make
Before he went back to Hell;

So thought he I'll step into a gaming-house,
And that will do as well;

But just before he could get to the door

A wonderful chance befell

For all on a sudden, in a dark place,

He came upon General

-'s burning face;

And it struck him with such consternation,
That home in a hurry his way did he take,
Because he thought, by a slight mistake
'Twas the general conflagration.

CHURCH AND STATE.

THOMAS MOORE,

WHEN Royalty was young and bold,
Ere, touch'd by Time, he had become--

If 't is not civil to say old

At least, a ci-devant jeune homme.

One evening, on some wild pursuit,
Driving along, he chanced to see
Religion, passing by on foot,

And took him in his vis-à-vis.

This said Religion was a friar,

The humblest and the best of men,

Who ne'er had notion or desire
Of riding in a coach till then.

“I say”—quoth Royalty, who rather Enjoy'd a masquerading joke—

66 I

say, suppose, my good old father, You lend me, for a while, your cloak."

The friar consented-little knew

What tricks the youth had in his head;

Besides, was rather tempted, too,

By a laced coat he got in stead.

Away ran Royalty, slap-dash,

Scampering like mad about the town; Broke windows-shiver'd lamps to smash,

And knock'd whole scores of watchmen down.

While naught could they whose heads were broke,
Learn of the "why" or the "wherefore,'
Except that 't was Religion's cloak

The gentleman, who crack'd them, wore.

Meanwhile, the Friar, whose head was turn'd
By the laced coat, grew frisky too—
Look'd big-his former habits spurn'd—
And storm'd about as great men do--

Dealt much in pompous oaths and curses-
Said "Damn you," often, or as bad—
Laid claim to other people's purses—
In short, grew either knave or mad.

As work like this was unbefitting,

And flesh and blood no longer bore it,
The Court of Common Sense then sitting,
Summon'd the culprits both before it;

Where, after hours in wrangling spent.
(As courts must wrangle to decide well),
Religion to St. Luke's was sent,

And Royalty pack'd off to Bridewell:

With this proviso-Should they be
Restored in due time to their senses,

They both must give security

In future, against such offenses

Religion ne'er to lend his cloak,

Seeing what dreadful work it leads to;

And Royalty to crack his joke—

But not to crack poor people's heads, too.

THOMAS MOORE.

LYING.

I DO confess, in many a sigh,
My lips have breath'd you many a lie,
And who, with such delights in view,
Would lose them for a lie or two?