The clown (unlike his wife, they say)
Could both be silent, and obey :

The pig, secured within a sack,
At ease hung dangling from his back;
Thus loaded, straight to town he went,
With many an awkward compliment.

A half-way house convenient stood,
Where host was kind, and ale was good:
In steps the clown, and calls to Cecil-
'A quart of stout, to wet my whistle !'
Eased of his load, he takes a chair,
And quaffs oblivion to all care.

Three artful wags accost the clown, And ask his errand up to town. With potent ale his heart grows warm, Which, drunk or sober, meant no harm: He tells them plainly whence he came; His master, and the lawyer's name; And, ere the circling mug was drain'd, Show'd what the prostrate sack contain❜d. Whilst two the witless clown amuse, With merry tales, and mournful news, A third removes the sack unseen, And soon sets free the guest within: But, lest our clown the trick should trace, A well-fed cur supplies the place. The point clear'd up of what's to pay, Our clown in peace pursued his way. Arrived, he makes his awkward bow, With many a Wherefore, and As how.

'Heaven bless your honour many a year!
Look what a pig I've brought you here.'
The sack untied without demur,

Forthwith out gently crept the cur.
Both stood aghast with eager eyes,
And both, no doubt, look'd wond'rous wise.
The clown, who saw the lawyer foam,
Swore 'twas a pig when brought from home:
And, wondering at the queer disaster,

In haste return'd to tell his master.

Well pleased to see him take the bait,
The wags his quick return await.

What peals of noisy mirth prevail,
To hear him tell the mystic tale!
The devil is in 't, they all agree,
And seem to wonder more than he.
From them to Cecil he repairs,
To her the strange event declares:
Meantime the wags, to end the joke,
Replace the pig within it's poke.
The rustic soon resumes his load,
And, whistling, plods along the road.

Th' impatient farmer hails the clown,

And asks, 'What news from London town? The pig was liked; they made you drink?''Nay, master! master! What d'ye think? The pig (or I'm a stupid log)

Is changed into a puppy dog.'

'A dog!'-'Nay, since my word you doubt, See here; I'll fairly turn him out.'

No sooner was the sack untied,

Than a loud grunt his word belied:

'Death,' cries the farmer, 'tell me whence
Proceeds this daring insolence?

Make haste, take back this pig again you
Presuming elf; or, zounds! I'll brain you!'
The clown of patient soul and blood,
Awhile in silent wonder stood;

Then briefly cried, with phiz demure-
'Yon lawyer is a witch, for sure!

How hoarse his voice! his face how grim!
What's pig with us is dog with him:
Heaven shield my future days from evil!
For, as I live, I've seen the devil.'

BETTER WALK THAN RIDE.

SPAVINED SAPPHICS.

Lo! how much grander for a human being, When he would journey, never to demean himSelf with a horse or carriage, but to leg it

Free from all cumbrance.

Sure, 'tis a folly, humble degradation,

For a strong biped, muscular and nervous,
Tied to a horse tail, in a cracking coach to
Drag on dependent.

'But it is quicker-it is less fatiguing;'

True, these are reasons when the knees are gouty,

Or, one would flee that bashful man the sheriff,
Or, from the small-pox.

And, let a doctor, or a country parson,
Stride like dividers, spurring like a Sambo
When one is qualmish with the pangs of nature,
Or with a neck broke.

But for a tourist, sketching what his eyes see;
But for a scholar, nursing as he mopes on;
Just as well, better, pleasanter, and safer,
For them to foot it.

That we have two legs, evident to all 'tis,
Who are not maim'd; and if any doubt it,
Let him his own count, and if he deny it,
Best learn to cipher.

Well then, these legs were given us to walk with;
Nothing more true is to a man of science;
For all the joints are fitted to this purpose,
Supple, and firm too.

Then never tell me more of fleetest horses, Chariots and tandems-rather boots and shoes on. Take up your staff, and, free and philosophic, Ride on your own feet.

Cease now, Miss Musey, spitting out your sapphics, Go, for I hate ye preaching 'bout your plodding; Give me a coach and dappled pair of geldings,

You may ride Shank's mare.

THE GOUTY MERCHANT, AND THE

STRANGER.

IN Bond Street Buildings, on a winter's night,
Snug by his parlour fire a gouty wight
Sate all alone, with one hand rubbing
His leg roll'd up in fleecy hose,

While t'other held beneath his nose

The Public Ledger, in whose columns grubbing, He noted all the sales of hops,

Ships, shops, and slops,

Gum, galls and groceries, ginger, gin,

Tar, tallow, turmerick, turpentine, and tin;
When lo! a decent personage in black
Enter'd, and most politely said,-

'Your footman, sir, has gone his nightly track,

To the King's Head,

And left your door ajar, which I

Observed in passing by,

And thought it neighbourly to give you notice.

'Ten thousand thanks-how very few get

In time of danger

Such kind attentions from a stranger. Assuredly that fellow's throat is

Doom'd to a final drop at Newgate.

He knows, too, the unconscious elf,

That there's no soul at home except myself.' 'Indeed!' replied the stranger, looking grave, 'Then he's a double knave.