Then as quickly return'd to his great satisfaction,
Conducting the bucket with secret attraction.

Then again sallied out and return'd with a second,
A third, fourth, fifth, six-full a dozen he reckon'd.
Again and again comes the troublesome evil;

He heartily wishes the stick at the devil,

And endeavours to stop this strange baton constabulary By repeating by heart all his magic vocabulary.

In vain, the said stick is as deaf as a post,

And frightens him, ready to give up the ghost.

'What, holloa! neighbours mine! oh, the shocking disaster!'
The louder he holloas the stick goes the faster.
In this wretched dilemma he loses his wits,
He rages, he swears, and he whimpers by fits;
Beats his breasts, pulls his hair, and defaces his face,
Still the stick and the bucket continued the chase.
The comical scene would have kill'd you with laughter,
The stick led the way and the bucket sped after.
Provoked at the sight, he endeavour'd to catch it,
Gets a rap on the knuckles-he seizes a hatchet,
In a violent passion he chops it asunder;
This stratagem proves a most exquisite blunder;
It produces a double stick, i.e., another,

That follows the steps of its hard-hearted brother.
Both together they fly, both their buckets they bring,
And around him a deluge of water they fling.
In brief, had not fortune the urchin befriended,
There is no telling where might the mischief have ended;
When, as good luck would have it, old Merlin appear'd,
In full magicals robed, with his grim-looking beard,

Who deliver'd him straight, stopp'd the sticks in a trice,
And dismiss'd the young chap with a word of advice:
'Only see what a pickle your rashness has cost,
And thank your good genius that all was not lost.
Remember, in future, my parting command,

That you never attempt what you don't understand;
And whatever you do, that success may attend,
Ere you think of beginning, consider the end.'

THE CONJURER COZENED.

Samuel Rowlands was a prolific poet, humorist, and writer of satirical squibs, temp. 1600. His works are now all but forgotten. A few, however, are still to be found among the publica. tions of the Percy Society.

A SHIFTING knave about the town,
Did challenge wondrous skill:

To tell men's fortunes and good haps,

He had the stars at will.

What day was best to travel on,

Which fit to choose a wife;

If violent or natural

A man should end his life;

Success of any suit in law,
Which party's cause prevails;

When it is good to pick one's teeth,

And ill to pare his nails.

So cunningly he played the knave,

That he deluded many,

With shifting, base, and cozening tricks;
For skill he had not any.

Amongst a crew of simple gulls,
That plyed him to their cost,

A butcher comes and craves his help.
That had some cattle lost.

Ten groats he gave him for his fee,
And he to conjure goes,

With characters, and vocables,

And divers antique shows.

The butcher, in a beastly fear,

Expected spirits still,

And wished himself within his shop,

Some sheep or calf to kill.

At length out of an old blind hole,

Behind a painted cloth,

A devil comes with roaring voice,

Seeming exceeding wroth,

With squibs and crackers round about

Wildfire he did send;

Which, swaggering Ball, the butcher's dog,

So highly did offend,

That he upon the devil flies,

And shakes his horns so sore,

Even like an ox, most terrible

He made hobgoblin roar.

The cunning man cries, 'For God's love. help,

Unto your mastiff call!'

'Fight dog, fight devil!' butcher said,

And claps his hands at Ball.

The dog most cruelly tore his flesh,
The devil went to wrack,

And looked like a tattered rogue,

With ne'er a rag on's back.

'Give me my money back again,
Thou slave,' the butcher said,
'Or I will see your devil's heart,
Before he can be laid :

He gets not back again to hell,
Ere I my money have,

And I will have some interest too,

Besides mine own I gave.

Deliver first mine own ten groats,

And then a crown to boot :

I smell your devil's knavery out,
He wants a cloven foot.'

The conjurer, with all his heart,

The money back repays,

And gives five shillings of his own:

To whom the butcher says,

'Farewell, most scurvy conjurer,

Think on my valiant deed,

Which has done more than English George,

That made the dragon bleed:

He and his horse, the story tells,

Did but a serpent slay :

I and my dog the devil spoil'd,

We two have got the day.'

THE PICTURE

MATCHES are made for many reasons—

For love, convenience, money, fun, and spite!
How many, against common sense, are treasons!
How few the happy pairs who match aright!
In the fair breast of some bewitching dame,
How many a youth will strive fond love to waken !
And when, at length, successful in his aim,

Be first mis-led, and afterwards mis-taken!
Then curse his fate, at matrimony swear,
And, like poor Adam, have a rib to spare!
How many ladies, speculating dears!
Will make six matches in as many years.
So fast, sometimes, the amorous gudgeons bite!
Others, like bungling housemaids in the dark,
Will fret and fume, and lose full many a spark,
And never, never get a match to light—
Nor think their want of skill the job could hinder,
But lay the fault upon the plaguy tinder.
Old men young women wed-by way of nurses;
Young men old women-just to fill their

Nor young men only-for 'tis my belief

purses:

(Nor do I think the metaphor a bold one), When folks in life turn over a new leaf,

Why very few would grumble at a gold one!

A worthy knight, yclept Sir Peter Pickle,

By love, was made to look exceeding glumpy;