Being well lathered from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,
Just like a hedger cutting furze;

'T was a vile razor !-then the rest he triedAll were impostors. "Ah!" Hodge sighed,

"I wish my eighteen pence within my purse."

In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, He cut, and dug, and minced, and stamped, and swore;

Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed, made wry faces,

And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er;

His muzzle formed of opposition stuff,
Firm as a Foxite, would not loose its ruff;

So kept it-laughing at the steel and suds.
Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws,
Vowing the direst vengeance with clenched claws,
On the vile cheat that sold the goods.

"Razors! a mean, confounded dog, Not fit to scrape a hog!"

Hodge sought the fellow-found him—and begun: "P'rhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 't is fun,

That people flay themselves out of their lives. You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing, Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing,

With razors just like oyster knives. Sirrah! I tell you you're a knave,

To cry up razors that can't shave!"

"Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave;
As for the razors you have bough
Upon my soul, I never thought
That they would shave."

[dering eyes,

"Not think they'd shave!" quoth Hodge, with wonAnd voice not much unlike an Indian yell; "What were they made for, then, you dog?" he cries. "Made," quoth the fellow with a smile-" to sell." -Dr. Wolcott (Peter Pindar).

Ancient maiden lady
Anxiously remarks,
That there must be peril
'Mong so many sparks;
Roguish looking fellow,
Turning to the stranger,
Says it's his opinion

She is out of danger!

Woman with her baby,
Sitting vis-a-vis,
Baby keeps a-squalling,
Woman looks at me;
Asks about the distance,

Says it's tiresome talking,

Noises of the cars

Are so very shocking!

Market woman, careful

Of the precious casket, Knowing eggs are eggs,

Tightly holds her basket; Feeling that a smash,

If it came, would surely Send her eggs to pot

Rather prematurely.

Singing through the forests,
Rattling over ridges;
Shooting under arches,

Rumbling over bridges;

Whizzing through the mountains,

Buzzing o'er the valeBless me! this is pleasant,

Riding on the rail!

-John Godfrey Saxe.

H! poor intoxicated little knave,

AH

Now senseless, floating on the fragrant wave;
Why not content the cakes alone to munch?
Dearly thou pay'st for buzzing round the bowl;
Lost to the world, thou busy, sweet-lipped soul-
Thus death, as well as pleasure, dwells with punch.

Now let me take thee out, and moralize-
Thus 'tis with mortals, as it is with flies,
Forever hankering after pleasure's cup,
Though fate, with all his legions, be at hand,
The beasts the draught of Circe can't withstand,
But in goes every nose-they must, will sup.

Mad are the passions, as a colt untamed!

When prudence mounts their backs to ride them mild,

They fling, they snort, they foam, they rise inflamed,
Insisting on their own sole will so wild,

Gadsbud! my buzzing friend, thou art not dead;
The fates, so kind, have not yet snapped thy thread;
By heavens, thou mov'st a leg, and now its brother,
And kicking, lo, again, thou mov'st another!

And now thy little drunken eyes unclose,
And now thou feelest for thy little nose,

And, finding it. thou rubbest thy two hands,
Much as to say, "I'm glad I'm here again."

And well mayst thou rejoice-'tis very plain,
That near wert thou to death's unsocial lands.
And now thou rollest on thy back about,
Happy to find thyself alive, no doubt;

Now turnest-on the table making rings;
Now crawling, forming a wet track;
Now shaking the rich liquor from thy pack;
Now fluttering nectar from thy silken wings;
Now standing on thy head, thy strength to find,
And poking out thy small, long legs behind;
And now thy pinions dost thou briskly ply;
Preparing now to leave me-farewell, fly!
Go, join thy brothers on yon sunny board,
And rapture to thy family afford-

There wilt thou meet a mistress, or a wife,
That saw thee, drunk, drop senseless in the stream;
Who gave, perhaps, the wide-resounding scream,
And now sits groaning for thy precious life.
Yes, go and carry comfort to thy friends,
And wisely tell them thy imprudence ends.
Let buns and sugar for the future charm;
These will delight and feed and work no harm-
While punch, the grinning merry imp of sin,
Invites the wary wanderer to a kiss,
Smiles in his face as though he meant him bliss,
Then like an alligator, drags him in.

-John Wolcott (Peter Pindar).

R. ORATOR PUFF had two tones in his voice,

one oqueaking this, and the other down

In each sentence he uttered he gave you your choice,
For one half was B alt, and the rest G below.
O! O! Orator Puff,

One voice for an orator's surely enough.

But he still talked away, spite of coughs and of frowns, So distracting all ears with his ups and his downs, That a wag once, on hearing the orator say, [pray?" "My voice is for war!" asked, "Which of them, O! O! Orator Puff, etc.

Reeling homeward one evening, top heavy with gin, And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the

crown,