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And so he did and won it too,
For he got first to town,
He did again get down.
And Gilpin long live he,
May I be there to see!
THE DISTRESSED TRAVELLERS;
LABOUR IN VAIN.
We would have perform’d if we could,
Slee sla slud,
Stuck in the mud,
Hop, hop, a la mode de deux frogs. 'Tis near as good walking as riding, When ladies are dress'd in their clogs.
Wheels, no doubt,
Go briskly about, But they clatter and rattle, and make such a rout!
How finely the weather improves !
How slowly and stately it moves !
Pshaw! never mind;
'Tis not in the wind; We are travelling south, and shall leave it behind.
For folks may be pounded and penn'd,
The longer we may;
If I fall, what a way I should roll !
'Tis a common affair ;
On what it were better to do.
But, by the bye,
SHE. But should we get there, how shall we get home?
What a terrible deal of bad road we have past, Slipping and sliding ; and if we should come To a difficult stile, I am ruined at last.
Oh this lane!
Now it is plain
Stick fast there, while I go and look.
And what you have here is a sample of all.
Come, wheel round;
The dirt we have found Would be an estate at a farthing a pound.
Set it, and sing it, and make it a song.
'Tis hobbling and lame,
Which critics won't blame, For the sense and the sound, they say, should be the
FOUNDED ON A FACT, WHICH HAPPENED IN JANUARY, 1779. WHERE Humber pours his rich commercial stream, There dwelt a wretch, who breathed but to blaspheme. In subterraneous caves his life he led, Black as the mine, in which he wrought for bread. When on a day, emerging from the deep, A sabbath-day, (such sabbaths thousands keep !) The wages of his weekly toil he bore To buy a cock—whose blood might win him more ; As if the noblest of the feather’d kind Were but for battle and for death design'd; As if the consecrated hours were meant For sport, to minds on cruelty intent. It chanced, (such chances Providence obey,) He met a fellow-labourer on the way,
Whose heart the same desires had once inflamed,
Now farewell oaths, and blasphemies, and lies !