He's dead. Oh! lay him gently in the ground!
And may his tomb be by this verse renown'd:
"Here Shock, the pride of all his kind, is laid,
Who fawn'd like man, but ne'er like man betray'd."

THE RAZOR SELLER.

A FELLOW in a market town,

Must musical, cried razors up and down,
And offered twelve for eighteen-pence ;
Which certainly seemed wondrous cheap,
And for the money quite a heap,

PETER PINDAR

As every man would buy, with cash and sense.

A country bumpkin the great offer heard:
Poor Hodge, who suffered by a broad black beard,

That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose·
With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid,

And proudly to himself, in whispers, said, "This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.

"No matter if the fellow be a knave,
Provided that the razors shave;

It certainly will be a monstrous prize."
So home the clown, with his good fortune, went,
Smiling in heart and soul, content,

And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes.

Being well lathered from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,
Just like a hedger cutting furze :

'T was a vile razor-then the rest he tried-
All were imposters-"Ah," Hodge sighed !
"I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse."

In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces,

He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamped, and swore, Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed, and made wry

faces,

And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er:

His muzzle, formed of opposition stuff,
Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff:

So kept it-laughing at the steel and suds:
Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws,

Vowing the direst vengeance, with clenched claws,
On the vile cheat that sold the goods.
"Razors! a damned, confounded dog,
Not fit to scrape a hog!"

Hodge sought the fellow-found him-and begun:
"P'rhaps, Master Razor rogue, to you 'tis fun,

That people flay themselves out of their lives:
You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing,
Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing,
With razors just like oyster knives.
Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave,

To cry up razors that can't shave.”

"Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave:

As for the razors you have bought,

Upon my soul I never thought

That they would shave.”

"Not think they'd shave!" quoth Hodge, with wond'ring

eyes,

And voice not much unlike an Indian yell;

"What were they made for then, you dog?" he cries: "Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile-" to sell."

THE SAILOR BOY AT PRAYERS.

PETER PINDAR.

A GREAT law Chief, whom God nor demon scares,
Compelled to kneel and pray, who swore his prayers,

The devil behind him pleased and grinning,

Patting the angry lawyer on the shoulder,
Declaring naught was ever bolder,

Admiring such a novel mode of sinning:

Like this, a subject would be reckoned rare,

Which proves what blood game infidels can dare;

Which to my memory brings a fact,

Which nothing but an English tar would act.

In ships of war, on Sunday's, prayers are given;
For though so wicked, sailors think of heaven,
Particularly in a storm;

Where, if they find no brandy to get drunk,
Their souls are in a miserable funk,

Then vow they to th' Almighty to reform,
If in His goodness only once, once more,
He'll suffer them to clap a foot on shore.

In calms, indeed, or gentle airs,

They ne'er on weekdays pester heaven with prayers; For 'tis among the Jacks a common saying,

"Where there's no danger, there's no need of praying."

One Sunday morning all were met

To hear the parson preach and pray,

All but a boy, who, willing to forget

That prayers were handing out, had stolen away,

And, thinking praying but a useless task,

Had crawled to take a nap, into a cask.

The boy was soon found missing, and full soon
The boatswain's cat, sagacious smelt him out;
Gave him a clawing to some tune-

This cat's a cousin Germain to the Knout.

"Come out, you skulking dog," the boatswain cried, “And save your d―d young sinful soul."

He then the moral-mending cat applied,

And turned him like a badger from his hole.

Sulky the boy marched on, and did not mind him,
Altho' the boatswain flogging kept behind him:
"Flog,” cried the boy, "flog-curse me, flog away—
I'll go—but mind-G-d d―n me if I'll pray.”

BIENSEANCE.

THERE is a little moral thing in France,

Called by the natives bienseance;

PETER PINDAR.

Much are the English mob inclined to scout it,
But rarely is Monsieur Canaille without it.

To bienseance 'tis tedious to incline,

In many cases;

To flatter, par example, keep smooth faces

When kicked, or suffering grievous want of coin.

To vulgars, bienseance may seem an oddity-
I deem it a most portable commodity ;

A sort of magic wand;

Which, if 'tis used with ingenuity,
Although a utensil of much tenuity,

In place of something solid, it will stand.

For verily I've marveled times enow
To see an Englishman, the ninny,
Give people for their services a guinea,
Which Frenchmen have rewarded with a bow.

Bows are a bit of bienseance

Much practiced too in that same France:
Yet called by Quakers, children of inanity;
But as they pay their court to people's vanity,
Like rolling-pins they smooth where'er they go
The souls and faces of mankind like dough!
With some, indeed, may bienseance prevail
To folly-see the under-written tale.

THE PETIT MAITRE, AND THE MAN ON THE WHEEL.

At Paris some time since, a murdering man,

A German, and a most unlucky chap,
Sad, stumbling at the threshold of his plan,
Fell into Justice's strong trap.

The bungler was condemned to grace the wheel,
On which the dullest fibers learn to feel;

His limbs secundum artem to be broke
Amid ten thousand people, perhaps, or more;
Whenever Monsieur Ketch applied a stroke,

The culprit, like a bullock, made a roar.

A flippant petit maître skipping by,

Stepped up to him, and checked him for his cry—

"Boh!" quoth the German, "an't I 'pon de wheel? D'ye tink my nerfs and bons can't feel?"

"Sir," quoth the beau, "don't, don't be in a passion;
I've naught to say about your situation ;
But making such a hideous noise in France,
Fellow, is contrary to bienseance."

KINGS AND COURTIERS.

How pleasant 'tis the courtier clan to see!

So prompt to drop to majesty the knee;
To start, to run, to leap, to fly,
And gambol in the royal eye;

PETER PINDAR.

And, if expectant of some high employ,
How kicks the heart against the ribs, for joy!

How rich the incense to the royal nose!

How liquidly the oil of flattery flows!

But should the monarch turn from sweet to sour,
Which cometh oft to pass in half an hour,

How altered instantly the courtier clan!

How faint! how pale! how woe-begone, and wan!

Thus Corydon, betrothed to Delia's charms,
In fancy holds her ever in his arms:

In maddening fancy, cheeks, eyes, lips devours;
Plays with the ringlets that all flaxen flow

In rich luxuriance o'er a breast of snow,

And on that breast the soul of rapture pours.

Night, too, entrances-slumber brings the dream-
Gives to his lips his idol's sweetest kiss;

Bids the wild heart, high panting, swell its stream,
And deluge every nerve with bliss:

But if his nymph unfortunately frowns,

Sad, chapfallen, lo! he hangs himself or drowns!

Oh, try with bliss his moments to beguile:

Strive not to make your sovereign frown-but smile: