Therewith in second-sight he saw

The place, and the manner and time, In which this mortal story

Would be put in immortal rhyme.

That it would happen when two poets
Should on a time be met
In the town of Nether Stowey,

In the Shire of Somerset.

There, while the one was shaving,

Would he the song begin;

And the other, when he heard it at breakfast, In ready accord join in.

So each would help the other
Two heads being better than one;
And the phrase and conceit
Would in unison meet,

And so with glee the verse flow free

In ding-dong chime of sing-song rhmye,
Till the whole were merrily done.

And because it was set to the razor,

Not to the lute or harp,

Therefore it was that the fancy

Should be bright, and the wit be sharp.

But then, said Satan to himself,

As for that said beginner, Against my infernal Majesty There is no greater sinner.

He hath put me in ugly ballads

With libellous pictures for sale;

He hath scoff'd at my hoofs and my horns, And has made very free with my tail. But this Mister Poet shall find

I am not a safe subject for whim;
For I'll set up a school of my own,
And my Poets shall set upon him.

He went to a coffee-house to dine,
And there he had soy in his dish;
Having ordered some soles for his dinner,
Because he was fond of flat fish.

They are much to my palate, thought he,
And now guess the reason who can,
Why no bait should be better than place,
When I fish for a parliament-man.

But the soles in the bill were ten shillings;
Tell your master, quoth he, what I say;
If he charges at this rate for all things.
He must be in a pretty good way.

But mark ye, said he to the waiter,
I'm a dealer myself in this line,
And his business between you and me,
Nothing like so extensive as mine.

Now, soles are exceedingly cheap;
Which he will not attempt to deny,
When I see him at my fish-market,
I warrant him, by and by.

As he went along the Strand

Between three in the morning and four,
He observed a queer-looking person
Who stagger'd from Perry's door.

And he thought that all the world over
In vain for a man you might seek,
Who could drink more like a Trojan,
Or talk more like a Greek.

The Devil then he prophesied

It would one day be matter of talk,
That with wine when smitten,

And with wit moreover being happily bitten,
This erudite bibber was he who had written
The story of this Walk.

A pretty mistake, quoth the Devil;
A pretty mistake, I opine!

I have put many ill thoughts in his mouth;
He will never put good ones in mine.

And whoever shall say that to Porson
These best of all verses belong,
He is an untruth-telling whoreson,
And so shall be call'd in the song.

And if seeking an illicit connection with fame,
Any one else should put in a claim

In this comical competition,

That excellent poem will prove

A man-trap for such foolish ambition, Where the silly rogue shall be caught by the leg, And exposed in a second edition.

Now the morning air was cold for him,
Who was used to a warm abode;
And yet he did not immediately wish,
To set out on his homeward road.

For he had some morning calls to make
Before he went back to Hell;

So, thought he, I'll step into a gaming house,
And that will do as well;

But just before he could get to the door,

A wonderful chance befell.

For all on a sudden, in a dark place,

He came upon General

--'s burning face;

And it struck him with such consternation,
That home in a hurry his way did he take,
Because he thought by a slight mistake
'Twas the general conflagration.

R. SOUTHEY.

GOD'S JUDGMENT ON A WICKED BISHOP.

THE summer and autumn had been so wet,
That in winter the corn was growing yet;
'Twas a piteous sight to see all around,
The grain lie rotting on the ground.

Every day the starving poor
Crowded round Bishop Hatto's door,
For he had a plentiful last-year's store,
And all the neighborhood could tell
His granaries were furnished well.

At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day
To quiet the poor without delay;

He bade them to his great barn repair,

And they should have food for the winter there.

Rejoiced such tidings good to hear,

The poor folk flock'd from far and near;
The great barn was full as it could hold
Of women and children, and young and old.
Then when he saw it could hold no more,
Bishop Hatto he made fast the door;

And while for mercy on Christ they call,
He set fire to the barn and burnt them all.

"I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire !" quoth he, "And the country is greatly obliged to me, For ridding it in these times forlorn

Of Rats that only consume the corn.”

So then to his palace returned he,
And he sat down to supper merrily,

And he slept that night like an innocent man;
But Bishop Hatto never slept again.

In the morning as he entered the hall
Where his picture hung against the wall,
A sweat like death all over him came,
For the rats had eaten it out of the frame.

As he look'd, there came a man from his farm;
He had a countenance white with alarm;
"My lord, I open'd your granaries this morn,
And the rats had eaten all your corn."