Who bore him to the judge-a little prig,

With angry bottle-nose

Like a red cabbage-rose,

While lots of white ones flourish'd on his wig.

Looking at once both stern and wise,
He turn'd to the delinquent,
And 'gan to question him and catechise.
As to which way the drink went :
Still the same dogged answers rise,

"The flies, my Lord-the flies, the flies !"

"Psha !" quoth the Judge, half peevish and haif pompous

"Why you're non compos.

You should have watched the bowl, as she desired,

And so killed the flies you stupid clown."

"What is it lawful then?" the dolt inquir'd,
"To kill the flies in this here town?"
"You silly ass-a pretty question this!
Lawful? you booby !-to be sure it is.
You've my authority, where'er you meet 'em,
To kill the rogues, and, if you like it, eat 'em."
"Zooks!" cried the rustic, "I'm right glad to hear it.

"Constable, catch that thief! may I go hang If yonder blue-bottle (I know his face)

Isn't the very leader of the gang

That stole the cream ;-let me come near it !"—

This said he started from his place,

And aiming one of his sledge-hammer blows

At a large fly upon the Judge's nose

The luckless blue-bottle, he smash'd

RAPS ON THE LAPSTONE.-G. W. Bungay.

OLD Crispin wore a paper cap,
And an apron made of leather;
He sat upon his bench to rap

Soles (not spirits) hours together.

He said his last days were his best,

Though he felt the thread unwinding;
His heart waxed warm within his vest,
And what he closed was binding.

When others spoke of this world's weal,
Crispin pointed to an upper;

He had the wondrous skill to heel,

But gave his earthly awl for supper.

He heeled more than the doctors did,

And helped the soles more than the preacher ;

For a quid pro quo he gave a quid,

And used the strap more than the teacher.

Aye, Crispin was a good old man,

Yet sometimes he would bristle;

But do the very best we can,

"A pig's tail will not make a whistle."

UNFORTUNATE ATTEMPT AT COURTING.-ANON.

ABOUT the year 1794, a German recently imported into Bristol, happened to hear of Mrs. B., a wealthy widow, and thought it would be a good speculation to offer himself to the lady's notice, as well qualified to succeed the late Mr. B. He accordingly waited on the lady wi ing no great familiarity with the with a copy of a German and Eu ing announced to the lady, determineu

"hat intention; but havh, he provided himself licy, and on beA his proposal,

t

with this introductory sentence-" Madam, having heard that Mr. B., late your husband, is dead ;"-but coming to the word, "gestorben," dead, he was at a loss for the English equivalent; so hastily pulling out his dictionary, (a huge octavo,) he turned to the word "sterben", to die, and there found-But what he found will be best collected from the dialogue which followed, as reported by the lady:

German. Madam, haaffing heard dat Mein Herr B., late your man, is-(these words he kept chiming as if to himself, until he arrived at No. 1 of the interpretation of "sterben", when he roared out in high glee at his discovery) is— dat is, has kicked de bucket.

Widow. (With astonishment.) Kicked the bucket, sir,what?

German. Ah, ah! alvay Ich make mistake. I vou'd haaf said (beginning again with the same solemnity of tone) since dat Mein Herr B., late your man, haaf-hopped de twigwhich words he screamed out with delight, certain that he had now hit the nail upon the head.

Widow. Upon my word, sir, I'm at a loss to understand you; "kicked the bucket," and "hopped the twig"!

German. (Perspiring with panic.). Ah, madam, von, two, tree, ten tousand pardon! Vat sad, vicked dictionary, I haaf dat alvays bring me in trubble; but now you sall hear, (and then recomposing himself solemnly for the third effort, he began as before) madam, since I did hear, or vas hearing, dat Mein Herr B, late your man, haaf, (with a triumphant shout,) haaf, I say, gone to Davy's locker—

Further he would have gone; but the widow could stand no

more.

TOBY TOSSPOT.-COLMAN.

ALAS! what pity 'tis that regularity,
Like Isaac Shove's is such a rarity,

But there are swilling wights in London town
Termed-jolly dogs,-choice spirits—alias swine,
Who pour in midnight revel, bumpers down,

Making their throat a thoroughfare for wine.

These spendthrifts, who life's pleasures thus run on,
Dozing with headaches till the afternoon,

Lose half men's regular estate of sun,

By borrowing too largely of the moon.

One of this kidney, Toby Tosspot hight-
Was coming from the Bedford late at night:
And being Bacchi plenus,-full of wine,
Although he had a tolerable notion
Of aiming at progressive motion,
'Twasn't direct-'twas serpentine.
He worked with sinuosities, along,

Like Monsieur Corkscrew, worming through a cork,
Not straight, like Corkscrew's proxy, stiff Don Prong—a fork.

At length, with near four bottles in his pate,
He saw the moon a shining on Shove's brass plate,
When reading, "Please to ring the bell,"

And being civil beyond measure,
"Ring it!" says Toby-" Very well;
I'll ring it with a deal of pleasure."
Toby, the kindest soul in all the town,
Gave it a jerk that almost jerked it down.

He waited full two minutes-no one came;
He waited full two minutes more;—and then,
Says Toby," If he's deaf, I'm not to blame;
I'll pull it for the gentleman again."

But the first peal 'woke Isaac in a fright,
Who, quick as lightning, popping up his head,
Sat on his head's antipodes, in bed,
Pale as a parsnip,-bolt upright.

At length, he wisely to himself doth say,-calming his fears,"Tush! 'tis some fool has rung and run away;" When peal the second rattled in his ears!

Shove jumped into the middle of the floor;

And, trembling at each breath of air that stirred, He groped down stairs, and opened the street-door, While Toby was performing peal the third.

Isaac eyed Toby, fearfully askant,—

And saw he was a strapper stout and tall,
Then put this question ;-"Pray, sir, what d'ye want?"
Says Toby," I want nothing, sir, at all."

"Want nothing!-Sir, you've pulled my bell, I vow,
As if you'd jerk it off the wire."

Quoth Toby,-gravely making him a bow,— "I pulled it, sir, at your desire.'

"At mine !"—" Yes, yours; I hope I've done it well;
High time for bed, sir: I was hastening to it;

But if you write up- Please ring the bell,'
Common politeness makes me stop and do it."

FRANK HAYMAN.-TAYLOR.

FRANK Hayman dearly loved a pleasant joke,
And after long contention with the gout,
A foe that oft besieged him, sallied out
To breathe fresh air, and appetite provoke.
It chanced as he was strolling void of care,
A drunken porter passed him with a hare;
The hare was o'er his shoulder flung,
Dangling behind in piteous plight,
And as he crept in zigzag style,
Making the most of every mile,
From side to side poor pussy swung,
As if each moment taking flight.