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the drugs and drenching-horn to old-Leach, the farrier.! Coming back, I met the vicar, who bade me run to Ben the barber, for his best wig, as he was going to the wedding-dinner.

Quot. A good lad; try to please everybody.

Dick. I do sir. I thrashed young Master Jackey just now, handsomely.

Quot. For what?

Dick. He was making fun, sir, of Blind Bob, the fiddler, who comes to our shop for a hapworth of rosin.

Quot. Oh, he mustn't offend a customer. Well, what else? as the poet says.

Dick. Why, sir, I filled the drawer with yellow-ochre, ground the green paint, bottled the red ink, blacked the shoes, and whitewashed the chimney-corner.

Quot. Talking of whitewashing, puts me in mind of Swilltub, the great brewer, now a bankrupt-has he sent for the hand-bills we printed !

Dick. Yes sir; and desired you to put a new light into his dark lantern! A job for you, too, in the glazing line, over the way, at the public house.—Sam Solid, dead drunk, turning round, broke three squares of the bow window.

Quot. That must wait till to-morrow. Have you mixed up the medicine for the mad Methodist parson?

Dick. Yes sir, but there's no more bark.

Quot. Talking of bark, puts me in mind of my little terrier dog-have you fed him?

Dick. Oh, yes, a terrible good one for vermin-he'll kill all the rats in the parish.

Quot. Ok, hang it, then kill him, or he 'll hurt the sale of arsenic.

Dick. Ecod, right master—we sell as much poison as all the doctors in the parish.

Quot. Talking of poison, have you taken the last new novel out of the girls' school-room ? as the poet says.

Dick. Yes sir, dang it, I wonder how you spare your time for poets and books-so much business! but there—you be often painting and writing poetry at the same time.

Quot. Poetry and painting are nearly the same thing, Dick.

Dick. That be what I thought myself ; so, as I mixed up colors for one, I'd a mind to try my hand at the other. Yesterday, I set to, with a bit of chalk, and got on famously. I finished the first line in a crack, but when I got to the end of the second, I could not think of a rhyme, and so I-stuck fast.

Quot. (Aside.) Confound the fellow, if he takes to poetry, I shall get no work done. Don't try again, Dick—one poet is enough in a family.

Dick. That be what mistress do say, sir. She complains that poetry has spoiled you! and that you don't do half what you used to do.

Quot. She's mistaken-I only change about—don't stick so much to the same job. Now, Dick, for business. You've done all the jobs I set you about ?

Dick. Yes sir, you may be certain of that.

Quot. Why, I believe you're pretty punctual, tho: not always so expeditious as I could wish. Sure, though somewhat slow, as Swift says.

Dick. Ob, you may depend upon me.

Quot. Did you run with the articles I wrapt up this morning?

Dick. Odd rabbit it, no-I quite forgot. Here they be. (Brings forward two parcels.) What's this? (reads.) ForDang it, sir, I can't well make out the directions—you wrote in such a hurry.

Quot No! mine 's a good running hand.

Dick. Running! I think it be galloping, the letters seem to scamper away from one another so fast, there 's no catching them.

Quot. Let me see; that's for Squire Fudge—this for the attorney's clerk in the next street.'

Dick. Squire Fudge! Oh, the old gentleman who lately married his smart young housekeeper. What be the articles, sir ?

Quot. Essence of hartshorn, a pair of spectacles, and a quire of large foolscap

Ovid says.

and be angry.

Dick. For old Fudge ?
Quot. And quizzing-glass for the attorney's clerk.

Dick. I'll go with them directly, and when I come back take my lunch. Bless me, sir, our beer do want drinking sadly, it be gitting sour.

Quot. Talking of what's sour, where's your mistress?
Dick. Busy among her scholars in the house.
Quot. Right ! let her stay there; she's in, and I'm out, as

Take my apron—I'm off. As to my wife-
Dick. Hush ! she 'll hear

you Quot. Nonsense! who rules? Am not I (as Milton says) “ Cock of the walk ?" Get you gone, and haste back, as I am going out soon—I've peeped into the school.

Dick. I am afraid the boys will play the deuce when they find you're from home; what am I to do?

Quot. Flog 'em all round.

Dick. I will, sir; I've put a new rod in pickle on purpose.

(Exit. Quot. Now


I to make a bold push for a fresh customer, as Cowley says. Busy day! a wedding this morning-andtalking of wedding, puts me in mind of a christening! Festival, too, in the next parish ! fine fun going on--bull-baiting, boxing, and backsword—jumping in sacks, grinning match and donkey race! I promised to meet the change-ringers hope I shall be in time just to take a touch at the triplebobs, as the poet says.


“ Look at the clock !" quoth Winifred Pryce,

As she open’d the door to her husband's knock, Then paus’d to give him a piece of advice, "You nasty Warmint, look at the Clock !

Is this the way, you

Wretch, every day you
Treat her who vow'd to love and obey you?

Out all night!

Me in a fright;
Staggering home as it's just getting light!
You intoxified brute !—you insensible block !-
Look at the Clock !-Do !-Look at the Clock !"

Winifred Pryce was tidy and clean,
Her gown was a flower'd one, her petticoat green,
Her buckles were bright as her milking cans,
And her hat was a beaver, and made like a man's;
Her little red eyes were deep set in their socket-holes,
Her gown-tail was turn'd up, and tucked through the pocket-


A face like a ferret

Betoken'd her spirit:
To conclude, Mrs. Pryce was not over young,
Had very short legs, and a very long tongue.

Now David Pryce

Had one darling vice; Remarkably partial to anything nice,

Especially ale-.

If it was not too stale
I really believe he'd have emptied a pail;

Not that in Wales

They talk of their Ales;. To pronounce the word they make use of might trouble you, Being spelt with a C, two Rs, and a W.

That particular day,

As I've heard people say,
Mr. David Pryce had been soaking his clay,
And amusing himself with his pipe and cheroots
The whole afternoon at the Goat-in-boots.
David felt when his wife cried, “ Look at the Clock !"
For the hands stood as crooked as crooked might be,
The long at the Twelve, and the short at the Three!

Mrs. Pryce's tongue ran long and fast;
But patience is apt to wear out at last,
And David Pryce in temper was quick,
So he stretch'd out his hand, and caught hold of a stick ;
Perhaps in its use he might mean to be lenient,
But walking just then wasn't very convenient,

So he threw it, instead,
Direct at her head;
It knock'd off her hat;

Down she fell flat;
Her case, perhaps, was not much mended by that:
But whatever it was whether rage and pain
Produced apoplexy, or burst a vein,
Or her trouble induced a concussion of brain,
I can't say for certain—but this I can,
When, sober'd by fright, to assist her he ran,
Mrs. Winifred Pryce was as dead as Queen Anne !

Mr. Pryce, Mrs. Winifred Pryce being dead,
Felt lonely, and moped; and one evening he said
He would marry Miss Davis at once in her stead.

Not far from his dwelling,

From the vale proudly swelling, Rose a mountain; its mame you 'll excuse me from telling, For the vowels made use of in Welsh are so few That the A and the E, the I, O, and the U, Have really but little or nothing to do; And the duty, of course, falls the heavier by far On the L, and the H, and the N, and the R.

Its first syllable "Pen,"

Is pronounceable ;—then
Come two L Ls, and two H Hs, two F Fs, and an N;
About half a score Rs, and some Ws follow,
Beating all my best efforts at euphony hollow:
But we shan't have to mention it often, so when
We do, with your leave, we 'll curtail it to “PEN."

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