look out of his pump, his sole come out of his shoe; he eat my suppare vile I turn my head, and no leave me none-he have no vaistcoat-he get up vhile I sleep and run away vid all my clothes, it is all bad, ma foi—but he is very jonteel man for all dat !
THE DILATORY SCHOLAR.-MRS. GILMAN.
OH! where is my hat? it is taken away,
And my shoestrings are all in a knot!
I can't find a thing where it should be to-day,
Though I've hunted in every spot.
My slate and pencil nowhere can be found,
Though I placed them as safe as could be;
While my books and my maps are all scattered around,
And hop about just like a flea.
Do, Rachael, just look for my Atlas, up stairs;
My Virgil is somewhere there, too;
And, sister, brush down these troublesome hairs,—
And, brother, just fasten my shoe.
And, mother, beg father to write an excuse;
But stop-he will only say "No,"
And go on with a smile and keep reading the news,
While everything bothers me so.
My satchel is heavy and ready to fall;
This old pop-gun is breaking my map;
I'll have nothing to do with the pop-gun or ball,—
There's no playing for such a poor chap!
The town-clock will strike in a minute, I fear;
Then away to the foot I must sink :-
There, look at my History, tumbled down here!
And my Algebra covered with ink!
I wish I'd not lingered at breakfast the last,
Though the toast and the butter were fine:
I think that our Edward must eat very fast,
To be off when I haven't done mine.
Now, Edward and Henry protest they won't wait, And beat on the door with their sticks;
I suppose they will say I was dressing too late: To-morrow I'll be up at six.
THE MAGPIE, OR BAD COMPANY.-ANON.
LET others, with poetic fire,
In raptures praise the tuneful choir,
The linnet, chaffinch, goldfinch, thrush,
And every warbler of the bush;
I sing the mimic magpie's fame,
In wicker cage well fed and tame.
In Fleet-street dwelt, in days of yore,
A jolly tradesman, named Tom More;
Generous and open as the day,
But passionately fond of play;
No sounds to him such sweets afford
As dice-box rattling o'er the board;
Bewitching hazard is the game
For which he forfeits health and fame.
In basket-prison hung on high,
With dappled coat and watchful eye,
A favorite magpie sees the play,
And mimics every word they say,
Oh, how he nicks us!" Tom More cries,
"Oh, how he nicks us!" Mag replies.
Tom throws, and eyes the glittering store,
And as he throws, exclaims "Tom More !"
"Tom More!" the mimic bird replies;
The astonished gamesters lift their eyes,
And wondering stare, and look around,
As doubtful whence proceeds the sound.
This dissipated life of course,
Soon brought poor Tom from bad to worse; Nor prayers nor promises prevail,
To keep him from a dreary jail.
And now, between each heartfelt sigh, Tom oft exclaims "Bad company
Poor Mag, who shares his master's fate,
Exclaims from out his wicker grate,
"Bad company! Bad company
Then views poor Tom with curious eye,-
And cheers his master's wretched hours
By this display of mimic powers;
The imprisoned bird, though much caressed,
Is still by anxious cares oppressed;
In silence mourns its cruel fate,
And oft explores his prison gate.
Observe through life you'll always find
A fellow-feeling makes us kind;
So Tom resolves immediately
To give poor Mag his liberty;
Then opes his cage, and, with a sigh,
Takes one fond look, and lets him fly.
Now Mag, once more with freedom blest,
Looks round to find a place of rest;
To Temple Gardens wings his way,
There perches on a neighboring spray.
The gardener now, with busy cares,
A curious seed for grass prepares :
Yet spite of all his toil and pain,
The hungry birds devour the grain.
A curious net he does prepare,
And lightly spreads the wily snare;
The feathered plunderers come in view
And Mag soon joins the thievish crew.
The watchful gardener now stands by
With nimble hand and wary eye;
The birds begin their stolen repast,
The flying net secures them fast.
The vengeful clown, now filled with ire,
Does to a neighboring shed retire,
And, having fast secured the doors
And windows, next the net explores.
Now, in revenge for plundered seed,
Each felon he resolves shall bleed;
Then twists their little necks around,
And casts them breathless on the ground.
Mag, who with man was used to herd,
Knew something more than common bird;
He therefore watched with anxious care,
And slipped himself from out the snare,
Then, perched on nail remote from ground,
Observes how deaths are dealt around.
"Oh, how he nicks us!" Maggy cries;
The astonished gardener lifts his eyes;
. With faltering voice and panting breath,
Exclaims, "Who's there?"-All still as death.
His murderous work he does resume,
And casts his eyes around the room
With caution, and, at length does spy
The Magpie, perched on nail so high!
The wondering clown, from what he heard,
Believes him something more than bird;
With fear impressed, does now retreat
Towards the door with trembling feet;
Then says "Thy name I do implore?"
The ready bird replies-"Tom More."
"Oh dear!" the frightened clown replies,
With hair erect and staring eyes!
Half opening then the hovel door,
He asks the bird one question more:
"What brought you here?"—with quick reply,
Sly Mag rejoins-"Bad company!"
Out jumps the gardener in a fright,
And runs away with all his might;
And, as he runs, impressed with dread
Exclaims, "Sure Satan's in the shed!"
The wond'rous tale a bencher hears,
And soothes the man, and quells his fears,
Gets Mag secured in wicker cage,
Once more to spend his little rage:
In Temple Hall, now hung on high,
Mag oft exclaims-"Bad company !"
A POLITICAL BORE.-MURPHY.
Quidnunc. (without.) Hold your tongue, you foolish fellow; he'll be glad to see me. Brother Feeble ! brother Feeble! Feeble. I was just going to bed. Bless my heart, what can this man want? I know his voice. I hope no new misfor tune brings him at this hour.
Quid. Brother Feeble, I give you joy! the nabob's demolished. Hurrah!
Feeb. Lack-a-day, Mr. Quidnunc! how can you serve me thus?
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