Great gentlefolks are found a score, Jack Fallow, born amongst the woods, Tim Oxford, lately from the plough, And talks about "country fellows;" But ask the fop what books he's read, You'll find the brain-pan of his head As empty as a bellows. Miss Faddle, lately from the wheel, And sings some tasty songs, too; If she can tell what part of speech Without one spark of wit refined- Of family or fame to boast; To see such gentry rule the roast, Turns patience to vexation. To clear such rubbish from the earth,- MONSIEUR TONSON.-ANON. THERE liv'd as fame reports, in days of yore, A pleasant wight in town, yclep'd Tom King, A fellow that was clever at a joke, Expert in all the arts to tease and smoke, In short, for strokes of humor, quite the thing. 3 To many a jovial club, this King was known, To him a frolic was a high delight— One night, our hero, rambling with a friend, And scarce a lamp display'd a twinkling light. Around this place, there liv'd the num'rous clans Known at that time by name of refugees- And here they lighted like a swarm of bees. Well! our two friends were saunt'ring through the street, Strait at the door he gave a thund'ring knock, (The time we may suppose near two o'clock) "I'll ask," says King, "if Thompson lodges here""6 Thompson!" cries t'other, "who the deuce is he?" "I know not," King replies, "but want to see What kind of animal will now appear." After some time a little Frenchman came, Though thus untimely rous'd, he courteous smil'd, Bending his head politely to his knee- Pray tell me, sare, vat your commands vid me?" "Sir," reply'd King, "I merely thought to know, As by your house I chanc'd to-night to go But, really, I disturb'd your sleep I fear- The shiv'ring Frenchman, tho' not pleas'd to find Too simple to suspect 'twas meant in jeer, Shrugg'd out a sigh that thus his rest should break, Then, with unalter'd courtesy, he spake "No, sare, no Monsieur Tonson lodges here." Our wag begg'd pardon, and toward home he sped, While the poor Frenchman crawl'd again to bed; But King, resolv'd not thus to drop the jest, So the next night, with more of whim than grace, Again he made a visit to the place, To break once more the poor old Frenchman's rest. He knock'd-but waited longer than before; And oft indeed he made the door resound. At last King hears him o'er the passage creep, The Frenchman falter'd, with a kind of fright- No Monsieur Tonson in de varld I know, Indeed, sare, dare no Monsieur Tonson here!" Some more excuses tender'd, off King goes, The rogue next night pursu'd his old career— 'Twas long indeed before the man came nigh, And then he utter'd, in a piteous cry, "Sare, 'pon my soul, no Monsieur Tonson here !" Our sportive wight his usual visit paid, He said "'tis vain her pretty tongue to tire, He should not stir till he had seen her master." The damsel then began, in doleful state, And begg'd he'd call at proper time of day- But first had much of deep concern to say. Thus urg'd, she went the snoring man to call, E're she could rouse the torpid lump of clay- When King attacks him in his usual way. The Frenchman now perceiv'd 'twas all in vain And strait in rage began his crest to rear- Did I not say no Monsieur Tonson here?” True as the night, King went, and heard a strife Between the harass'd Frenchman and his wife, Which should descend to chase the fiend away; At length to join their forces they agree, |