At last there came a pause of brutal force,

The cur was silent, for his jaws were full
Of tangled locks of tarry wool,

The man had whoop'd and bellow'd till dead hoarse,

The time was ripe for mild expostulation, And thus it stammer'd from a stander-by"Zounds!—my good fellow,—it quite makes me— why

It really my dear fellow-do just try

Conciliation!"

Stringing his nerves like flint,

The sturdy butcher seized upon the hint,—
At least he seized upon the foremost wether,—
And hugg'd and lugg'd and tugg'd him neck and

crop

Just nolens volens thro' the open shop

If tails come off he did'nt care a feather,—
Then walking to the door, and smiling grim,
He rubb'd his forehead and his sleeve together-
"There!-I've conciliated him!"

Again-good-humouredly to end our quarrel— (Good humour should prevail!)

I'll fit you with a tale

Whereto is tied a moral.

Once on a time a certain English lass

Was seized with symptoms of such deep decline,

Cough, hectic flushes, ev'ry evil sign,
That, as their wont is at such desperate pass,
The doctors gave her over-to an ass.

Accordingly, the grisly Shade to bilk,

Each morn the patient quaff'd a frothy bowl
Of asinine new milk,

Robbing a shaggy suckling of a foal

Which got proportionably spare and skinny— Meanwhile the neighbours cried "poor Mary Ann!

She can't get over it! she never can!"

When lo! to prove each prophet was a ninny The one that died was the poor wetnurse Jenny.

To aggravate the case,

There were but two grown donkeys in the place;
And most unluckily for Eve's sick daughter,
The other long-ear'd creature was a male,
Who never in his life had given a pail

Of milk, or even chalk and water.

No matter at the usual hour of eight
Down trots a donkey to the wicket-gate,
With Mister Simon Gubbins on his back,-
"Your sarvant, Miss,-a werry spring-like day,-
Bad time for hasses tho'! good lack! good lack!
Jenny be dead, Miss, but I'ze brought ye

Jack,

He doesn't give no milk-but he can bray."

So runs the story,

And, in vain self-glory,

Some Saints would sneer at Gubbins for his

blindness

But what the better are their pious saws
To ailing souls, than dry hee-haws,

Without the milk of human kindness?

ODE

ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM

ACADEMY.*

Ан me! those old familiar bounds!

That classic house, those classic grounds
My pensive thought recalls!

What tender urchins now confine,
What little captives now repine,
Within yon irksome walls!

Aye, that's the very house! I know
Its ugly windows, ten a-row!

Its chimneys in the rear!

And there's the iron rod so high,

That drew the thunder from the sky

And turn'd our table-beer!

There I was birch'd! there I was bred!

There like a little Adam fed

From Learning's woful tree!
The weary tasks I used to con!-
The hopeless leaves I wept upon !—
Most fruitless leaves to me!-

No connection with any other Ode.

The summon'd class!-the awful bow!-
I wonder who is master now

And wholesome anguish sheds!
How many ushers now employs,
How many maids to see the boys
Have nothing in their heads!

And Mrs. S***?-Doth she abet
(Like Pallas in the parlour) yet
Some favour'd two or three,-
The little Crichtons of the hour,
Her muffin-medals that devour,
And swill her prize-bohea?

Aye, there's the playground! there's the lime,
Beneath whose shade in summer's prime
So wildly I have read!—

Who sits there now, and skims the cream
Of young Romance, and weaves a dream
Of Love and Cottage-bread?

Who struts the Randall of the walk?
Who models tiny heads in chalk?

Who scoops the light canoe?

What early genius buds apace?

Where's Poynter? Harris? Bowers? Chase? Hal Baylis ? blithe Carew?

Alack! they're gone-a thousand ways!

And some are serving in "the Greys,"