At what the-Moses-was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.
-First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill,-
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,-
Just the hour of the earthquake-shock!
-What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once,—
All at once, and nothing first,-
Just as bubbles do when they burst.
End of the wonderful one-hoss-shay,
Logic is logic. That's all I say.
IN á Devonshire lane, as I trotted along,
T'other day much in want of a subject for song;
Thinks I to myself, I have hit on a strain,—
Sure marriage is much like a Devonshire lane.
In the first place, 'tis long, and when once you are in it, It holds you as fast as the cage holds a linnet;
For howe'er rough and dirty the road may be found, Drive forward you must, since there's no turning round.
But though 'tis so long, it is not very wide,
For two are the most that together can ride;
And even there 'tis a chance but they get in a pother,
And jostle and cross, and run foul of each other.
Oft Poverty greets them with mendicant looks
And Care pushes by them o'erladen with crooks,
And Strife's grating wheels try between them to pass,
Or Stubbornness blocks up the way on her ass.
Then the banks are so high, both to left hand and right,
That they shut up the beauties around from the sight;
And hence you'll allow, 'tis an inference plain,
That marriage is just like a Devonshire lane.
But thinks I too these banks within which we are pent
With bud, blossom, and berry, are richly besprent ;
And the conjugal fence which forbids us to roam,
Looks lovely, when deck'd with the comforts of home.
In the rock's gloomy crevice the bright holly grows,
The ivy waves fresh o'er the withering rose,
And the evergreen love of a virtuous wife
Smooths the roughness of care-cheers the winter of life.
Then long be the journey, and narrow the way;
I'll rejoice that I've seldom a turnpike to pay ;
And whate'er others think, be the last to complain,
Though marriage is just like a Devonshire lane.
GEORGE COLMAN THE YOUNGER.
ALAS! what pity 'tis that regularity,
Like Isaac Shrove's, is such a rarity.
But there are swilling wights in London town,
Term'd jolly dogs-choice spirits-alias swine;
Who pour, in midnight revel, bumpers down,
Making their throats a thoroughfare for wine.
These spendthrifts, who life's pleasures run on,
Dozing with headaches till the afternoon,
Lose half men's regular estate of sun,
By borrowing too largely of the moon.
One of this kidney,-Toby Tosspot hight,-
Was coming from the Bedford late at night :
And being Bacchi plenus,—full of wine,
Although he had a tolerable notion
Of aiming at progressive motion,
'Twasn't direct-'twas serpentine.
He work'd with sinuosities along,
Like Monsieur Corkscrew,-worming through a cork: Not straight, like Corkscrew's proxy, stiff Don Prong, A fork!
At length with near four bottles in his pate;
He saw the moon shining on Shrove's brass plate;
When reading, 'Please to ring the bell ;'
And being civil beyond measure.
'Ring it!' says Toby; 'very well,
I'll ring it with a deal of pleasure.'
Toby, the kindest soul in all the town,
Gave it a jerk that almost jerk'd it down.`
He waited full two minutes-no one came :
He waited full two minutes more; and then,
Says Toby, 'If he's deaf I'm not to blame ;
I'll pull it for the gentleman again.'
But the first peal 'woke Isaac in a fright,
Who quick as lightning, popping up his head,
Sat on his head's antipodes, in bed,
Pale as a parsnip,-bolt upright.
At length, he wisely to himself doth say,-
Calming his fears,-
'Tush! 'tis some fool has rung and run away;
When peal the second rattled in his ears.
Shrove jumped into the middle of the floor;
And, trembling at each breath of air that stirr'd,
He groped down stairs, and open'd the street-door,
While Toby was performing peal the third.
Isaac eyed Toby fearfully askant,
And saw he was a strapper, stout and tall;
Then put this question:- Pray, sir, what d'ye want?' Says Toby,-'I want nothing, sir, at all.'
'Want nothing !—Sir, you've pulled my bell, I vow, As if you'd jerk it off the wire.'
Quoth Toby,-gravely making him a bow,—
'I pull'd it, sir, at your desire.'
'At mine's !'-'Yes, yours; I hope I've done it well.' 'High time for bed, sir.'-'I was hastening to it; But if you write up-Please to ring the bell, Common politeness makes me stop and do it.'
[From the Biglow Papers.]
Deer sir its gut to be the fashun now to rite letters to the candid 8s and i wus chose at a publick Meetin in Jaalam to do wut wus nessary fur that town. i writ to 271 ginerals and gut ansers to 209. tha air called candid 8s but I don't see nothin candid about em. this here I wich I send was thought satty's factory. I dunno as it's ushle to print Poscrips, but as all the ansers I got hed the saim, I sposed it wus best. times has gretly changed. Formaly to knock a man into a cocked hat wus to use him up, but now it ony gives him a chance fur the cheef madgustracy.
DEAR SIR,-You wish to know my notions
On sartin pints thet rile the land;
There's nothin' thet my natur so shuns
Ez bein' mum or underhand;
I'm a straight-spoken kind o' creetur
Thet blurts right out wut's in his head,
An' ef I've one pecooler feetur,
It is a nose thet wunt be led.
So, to begin at the beginnin',
An' come direcly to the pint,
I think the country's underpinnin'
Is some consid❜ble out o' jint;
I aint agoin' to try your patience
By tellin' who done this or thet,
I don't make no insinooations,
I jest let on I smell a rat.
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