Honours are silly toys, I know,

And titles are but empty names;
I would, perhaps, be Plenipo-
But only near St. James;
I'm very sure I should not care
To fill our Gubernator's chair.

Jewels are baubles; 'tis a sin

To care for such unfruitful thingsOne good-sized diamond in a pin, Some, not so large, in rings,

A ruby, and a pearl, or so,

Will do for me-I laugh at show.

My dame should dress in cheap attire (Good, heavy silks are never dear); I own perhaps I might desire

Some shawls of true CashmereSome narrowy crapes of China silk, Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.

Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn, Nor ape the glitt'ring upstart fool; Shall not carved tables serve my turn, But all must be of buhl?

Give grasping pomp its double care,I ask but one recumbent chair.

Thus humble let me live and die,
Nor long for Midas' golden touch;

If Heaven more gen'rous gifts deny,
I shall not miss them much,-
Too grateful for the blessing lent

Of simple tastes and mind content !'

ORIGIN OF THE PRINTER'S DEVIL.

FRANCIS BROWNE.

WHEN Faustus, at first, did his printing begin,
A boy he employ'd, and confined him within;
Lest, perchance, if abroad he were suffer'd to stroll,
'The gaff he might blow,' and discover the whole.

Now those who had seen the poor lad thro' a chink,
All over begrimed with dirt, paste, oil, and ink;
Declared 'twas the Devil, since no one but he
Could make copies so nice, to a tittle agree.
Nay, some e'en went so far as to say that they saw
The horns on his head, and his Devilship's paw.
So 'twas held at that time, that whate'er was in print,
Must be done by the Devil, and the Devil was in't.
Thus the name was establish'd—and now, Sir, adieu ;
But, for this information, give the Devil his due.

THE FRIARS OF DIJON.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

Thomas Campbell, author of The Pleasures of Hope, Gertrude of Wyoming, and many other shorter poems which the 'world will

not let die,' such as Hohenlinden, Ye Mariners of England, Battle of the Baltic, Exile of Erin, etc., was born in Glasgow, 1777. He died 1844, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.

WHEN honest men confess'd their sins,
And paid the Church genteelly—
In Burgundy two Capuchins

Lived jovially and freely.

They march'd about from place to place,
With shrift and dispensation;
And mended broken consciences,
Soul-tinkers by vocation.

One friar was Father Boniface,
And he ne'er knew disquiet,

Save when condemn'd to saying grace
O'er mortifying diet.

The other was lean Dominick,

Whose slender form, and sallow,

Would scarce have made a candle-wick
For Boniface's tallow.

Albeit, he tippled like a fish,

Though not the same potation;

And mortal man ne'er clear'd a dish
With nimbler mastication.

Those saints without the shirts arrived,

One evening late, to pigeon
A country pair for alms, that lived

About a league from Dijon.

Ꮓ

Whose supper-pot was set to boil,
On fagots briskly crackling;

The friars enter'd with a smile
To Jacquez and to Jaqueline.

They bow'd and bless'd the dame, and then
In pious terms besought her
To give two holy-minded men
A meal of bread and water.

For water and a crust they crave—

Those mouths that even on Lent days
Scarce knew the taste of water, save
When watering for dainties.

Quoth Jacquez, 'That very sorry cheer
For men fatigued and dusty;
And if ye supp'd on crusts, I fear
You'd go to bed but crusty.'

So forth he brought a flask of rich
Wine, fit to feast Silenus,

And viands, at the sight of which
They laugh'd like two hyænas.

Alternately the host and spouse
Regaled each pardon-gauger,
Who told them tales right marvellous,
And lied as for a wager—

'Bout churches like balloons convey'd
With aeronautic martyrs;

And wells made warm, where holy maid Had only dipp'd her garters.

And if their hearers gasp'd, I guess,

With jaws three inch asunder, 'Twas partly out of weariness, And partly out of wonder.

Then striking up duets, the freres
Went on to sing in matches,
From psalms to sentimental airs,

From these to glees and catches.

At last, they would have danced outright,
Like a baboon and tame bear,

If Jacquez had not drunk, Good-night,
And shown them to their chamber.

The room was high, the host was nigh-
Had wife or he suspicion

That monks would make a raree-show
Of chinks in the partition?—

Or that two confessors would come,
Their holy ears out-reaching

To conversations as hum-drum
Almost as their own preaching?

Shame on you, Friars of orders grey, That peeping knelt, and wriggling, And, when ye should have gone to pray, Betook yourselves to giggling!