If ye wad buy a web o' auld wife's spinning,
I'll warrant ye it's a weel-wearing linen.”

Then up got Peg, and round the house 'gan scuttle
In search of goods her customer to nail,
Until the Sultaun strain'd his princely throttle
And hallo'd—“Ma'am, that is not what I ail.
Pray, are you happy, ma'am, in this snug glen ?"—
"Happy?" said Peg; "What for d'ye want to ken?
Besides, just think upon this by-gane year,

Grain wadna pay the yoking of the pleugh.""What say you to the present?"—“Meal's sae dear, To make their brose my bairns have scarce aneugh."— "The devil take the shirt," said Solimaun,

"I think my quest will end as it began.Farewell, ma'am; nay, no ceremony, I beg”— "Ye'll no be for the linen then?” said Peg.

Now, for the land of verdant Erin,
The Sultaun's royal bark is steering,

The Emerald Isle, where honest Paddy dwells,
The cousin of John Bull, as story tells.

For a long space had John, with words of thunder
Hard looks, and harder knocks, kept Paddy under,
Till the poor lad, like boy that's flogg'd unduly,
Had gotten somewhat restive and unruly.
Hard was his lot and lodging, you'll allow,
A wigwam that would hardly serve a sow;
His landlord, and of middle men two brace,
Had screw'd his rent up to the starving-place;
His garment was a top-coat, and an old one,
His meal was a potato, and a cold one;
But still for fun or frolic, and all that,

In the round world was not the match of Pat.
The Sultaun saw him on a holiday,

Which is with Paddy still a jolly day;

When mass is ended, and his load of sins

Confess'd, and Mother Church hath from her binns

Dealt forth a bonus of imputed merit,

Then is Pat's time for fancy, whim, and spirit!

To jest, to sing, to caper fair and free,

And dance as light as leaf upon the tree.

"By Mahomet," said Sultaun Solimaun,
"That ragged fellow is our very man!
Rush in and seize him-do not do him hurt,
But, will he nill he, let me have his shirt."

Shilela their plan was well-nigh after baulking

(Much less provocation will set it a-walking),
But the odds that foil'd Hercules foil'd Paddy Whack;
They seized, and they floor'd, and they stripp'd him--Alack!
Up-bubboo! Paddy had not-a shirt to his back!!!
And the King, disappointed, with sorrow and shame,
Went back to Serendib as sad as he came.

THE DONKEY AND HIS PANNIERS.

THOMAS MOORE.

A DONKEY whose talent for burden was wondrous,
So much that you'd swear he rejoiced in a load,
One day had to jog under panniers so pond'rous,
That-down the poor donkey fell, smack on the road.

His owners and drivers stood round in amaze

What! Neddy, the patient, the prosperous Neddy So easy to drive through the dirtiest ways,

For every description of job-work so ready!

One driver (whom Ned might have "hail'd" as a "brother")
Had just been proclaiming his donkey's renown,

For vigor, for spirit, for one thing or other

When, lo! 'mid his praises, the donkey came down.

But, how to upraise him?-one shouts, t'other whistles,
While Jenky, the conjurer, wisest of all,

Declared that an "over-production" of thistles—
(Here Ned gave a stare)—was the cause of his fall.

Another wise Solomon cries, as he passes-
"There, let him alone, and the fit will soon cease;
The beast has been fighting with other jack-asses,
And this is his mode of 'transition to peace.''

Some look'd at his hoofs, and, with learned grimaces,
Pronounced that too long without shoes he had gone-
"Let the blacksmith provide him a sound metal basis
(The wiseacres said), and he's sure to jog on."

But others who gabbled a jargon half Gaelic,

Exclaim'd, "Hoot awa, mon, you're a' gane astray"-
And declared that "whoe'er might prefer the metallic,
They'd shoe their own donkeys with papier mache."

Meanwhile the poor Neddy, in torture and fear,
Lay under his panniers, scarce able to groan,
And, what was still dolefuler-lending an ear

To advisers whose ears were a match for his own.

At length, a plain rustic, whose wit went so far

As to see others' folly, roar'd out as he pass'd—

Quick-off with the panniers, all dolts as ye are,
Or your prosperous Neddy will soon kick his last."

MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE.

A LEGEND OF JARVIS'S JETTY.

R. HARRIS BARHAM.

MR. SIMPKINSON (loquitur).

I was in Margate last July, I walk'd upon the pier,

I saw a little vulgar Boy-I said "What make you here?—
The gloom upon your youthful cheek speaks any thing but joy;"
Again I said, "What make you here, you little vulgar Boy?"

He frown'd, that little vulgar Boy-he deem'd I meant to scoff—
And when the little heart is big, a little "sets it off;"
He put his finger in his mouth, his little bosom rose,-
He had no little handkerchief to wipe his little nose!

"Hark! don't you hear, my little man?-it's striking nine," I said,

An hour when all good little boys and girls should be in bed. Run home and get your supper, else your Ma' will scold—Oh!

fie!

It's very wrong indeed for little boys to stand and cry!"

The tear-drop in his little eye again began to spring,

His bosom throbb'd with agony-he cried like any thing!
I stoop'd, and thus amidst his sobs I heard him murmur—“Ah!
I haven't got no supper! and I haven't got no Ma'! !——

"My father, he is on the seas,-my mother's dead and gone!
And I am here, on this here pier, to roam the world alone;
I have not had, this live-long day, one drop to cheer my heart,
Nor brown' to buy a bit of bread with,-let alone a tart.

"If there's a soul will give me food, or find me in employ, By day or night, then blow me tight!" (he was a vulgar Boy;) "And now I'm here, from this here pier it is my fixed intent To jump, as Mr. Levi did from off the Monu-ment!"

"Cheer up! cheer up! my little man-cheer up!" I kindly said, You are a naughty boy to take such things into your head:

If you should jump from off the pier, you'd surely break your legs,

Perhaps your neck-then Bogey 'd have you, sure as eggs are eggs!

"Come home with me, my little man, come home with me and

sup;

My landlady is Mrs. Jones-we must not keep her upThere's roast potatoes on the fire,-enough for me and youCome home, you little vulgar Boy-I lodge at Number 2."

I took him home to Number 2, the house beside "The Foy,”
I bade him wipe his dirty shoes-that little vulgar Boy,—
And then I said to Mistress Jones, the kindest of her sex,
"Pray be so good as go and fetch a pint of double X!"

But Mrs. Jones was rather cross, she made a little noise,
She said she "did not like to wait on little vulgar Boys."
She with her apron wiped the plates, and, as she rubb'd the delf,
Said I might "go to Jericho, and fetch my beer myself!"

I did not go to Jericho--I went to Mr. Cobb—

I changed a shilling-(which in town the people call "a Bob")— It was not so much for myself as for that vulgar child

And I said, "A pint of double X, and please to draw it mild!"

When I came back I gazed about-I gazed on stool and chair-
I could not see my little friend-because he was not there!
I peep'd beneath the table-cloth-beneath the sofa too-
I said "You little vulgar Boy! why what's become of you?"

I could not see my table-spoons-I look'd, but could not see
The little fiddle-pattern'd ones I use when I'm at tea;
-I could not see my sugar-tongs-my silver watch—oh, dear!
I know 't was on the mantle-piece when I went out for beer.

I could not see my Mackintosh!-it was not to be seen! Nor yet my best white beaver hat, broad-brimm'd and lined with green;

My carpet-bag-my cruet-stand, that holds my sauce and soy,— My roast potatoes!-all are gone !—and so's that vulgar Boy!

I rang the bell for Mrs. Jones, for she was down below, "Oh, Mrs. Jones! what do you think?-ain't this a pretty go? -That horrid little vulgar Boy whom I brought here to-night, -He's stolen my things and run away! !"-Says she, "And sarve you right! !"

*

**

*

Next morning I was up betimes-I sent the Crier round,
All with his bell and gold-laced hat, to say I'd give a pound
To find that little vulgar Boy, who'd gone and used me so;
But when the Crier cried "O Yes!" the people cried, “O No!”

I went to "Jarvis' Landing-place," the glory of the town,
There was a common sailor-man a-walking up and down;
I told my tale-he seem'd to think I'd not been treated well,
And called me "Poor old Buffer!" what that means I cannot tell.

That sailor-man, he said he'd seen that morning on the shore,
A son of something-'t was a name I'd never heard before,
A little "gallows-looking chap"-dear me; what could he mean?
With a "carpet-swab" and "muckingtogs," and a hat turned up
with green.

He spoke about his "precious eyes," and said he'd seen him "sheer,"

-It's
very odd that sailor-men should talk so very queer—
And then he hitch'd his trowsers up, as is, I'm told, their use,
-It's very odd that sailor-men should wear those things so loose.