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Oh! were I by your bounty fed,
Nay, gentle Lady, do not chide ;
Trust me I mean to earn my bread,
The Sailor's Orphan Boy has pride.
Lady! you weep_ah! this to me!
You'll give me clothing, food, employ ;
Look down, dear parents, look and see
Your happy-happy Orphan Boy!
As lately return'd from the Isles of the West,
Lorenzo, with health and prosperity blest,
And surrounded by friends, at his table presided,
Where all the good things of the world were provided,
A domestic, with Africa's hue on his skin,
A basket of apples and chesnuts brought in.
Lorenzo, with wine and good fellowship warm,
To laugh at poor Mungo conceived it no harm;
And exclaim'd, as he held up the fruit to his view,
“ This apple's a white man; this chesnut is you.”
“Ah! Massa," said Mungo, “ acknowledge I must
The connexion is good, the comparison just;
For Negro, like chesnut, tho' dark is his skin,
Is white, firm, and sound, as the kernel within ;
While tho' beauteous, like apple, is buckra so smart,
He has oft many little black grains at his heart.”
ONE Biddy Brown, a country dame,
As 'tis by many told,
Went to a doctor (Drench by name)
For she had caught a cold!
And sad indeed was Biddy's pain,
The truth must be confest,
Which she to ease found all in vain,
For it was at her chest.
The doctor heard her case--and then,
Determined to assist her,
Prescribed-oh, tenderest of men,
Upon her chest a blister!
Away went Biddy—and next day
She call'd on Drench again ; “ Well, have you used the blister, pray ;
And' has it eased your pain ?”.
Aye, zur," the dame with curtsey cries,
• Indeed I never mocks ;
But-bless ye-I'd no chest the size,
So I put it on a box ! “ But la ! zur, it be little use,
It never rose a bit ; And you may see it if
you choose, For there it's sticking yet."
On, mercy! heaven's first attribute,
Whose care embraces man and brutel
Behold me where I shivering stand ;
Bid gentle Pity stretch her hand
To want and age, disease and pain,
That all in one sad object reign.
Still feeling bad, still feeling worse,
Existence is to me a curse :
Yet how to close this weary eye!
By my own hand 1 dare not die:
And Death, the friend of human woes,
Who brings the last and sound repose,
Death does at dreadful distance keep,
And leaves one wretch to wake and weep.
JACK KETCH AND THE FRENCHMAN.
A FRENCHMAN once at some assizes, ('Twas Nottingham the muse surmises,) Hell justly by the course of law, A victim for–un grand faux pas. When he approach'd the fatal tree, (Une autre Place de Greve pour lui,) And when Jack Ketch prepard to tie The noose that would exalt him high, Instead of praying to the Lord, Monsieur exclaim'd " Ah misericorde !" “ Measure the cord!” replied Jack Ketch ; “ Measure the cord yourself, you wretch.” Still “misericorde !" was all his cry" Ah, misericorde! dat I should die ; Ah, misericorde! good folks, good bye !" “ Measure the cord, you sniv'ling cur!”. Rejoin'd the executioner ;6 "I'is long enough–I know 'twill do To hang a score such rogues as you; And since you've been a thieving elf, Measure the cord, I say, yourself.”
THE ATHEIST AND THE ACORN.
METHINKS the world seems oddly made,
And every thing amiss ;
A dull complaining Atheist said,
As stretch'd he lay beneath the shade,
And instanced it in this :
“Behold," quoth he, “ that mighty thing,
A pumpkin large and round,
Is held but by a little string,
Which upward cannot make it spring,
Nor bear it from the ground.
While on this oak an acorn small,
So disproportion'd grows,
That whosoe'er surveys this all,
This universal casual ball,
Its ill-contrivance knows.
My better judgment would have hung,
The pumpkin on a tree,
And left the acorn slightly strung,
'Mongst things that on the surface sprung,
And weak and feeble be.”
No more the caviller could say,
Nor further faults descry ;
For upwards gazing, as he lay,
An acorn loosen'd from its spray
Fell down upon
The wounded part with tears ran o'er,
As punish'd for that sin:
Fool! had that bough a pumpkin bore,
Thy whimsies would
have work'd no more ;
Nor skull have kept them in.
DARK was the night, and heaven's host of stars Were lurk'd behind the misty watering clouds ; Loud roar'd the thunder, and the whistling wind Beat the fierce torrents 'gainst my trembling tent: When I, depress'd and weary with the march, Most gladly sought my pallet once again.
I slept-and soon a visionary sight
Arose, and bore me to my distant home :
Methought, the battle's bloody strife was o'er-
There lay unnumber'd heroes on the ground,
with wounds, bathed in their clotted gore,
And yielding up their last and silent breath.
Unknown I left the camp, and cross'd the field
Towards the cottage, which I left in tears ;
Pass'd the huge mountain's steep and craggy form,
Where, in my youthful days, I lov'd to chase
The wild chamois that bounded on the spot ;
I passed the abbey, heard the dreary bell
Chiming the midnight hour ; all still remained,
Saving the wind's shrill whistle through the trees.
Onward I went, whilst each new step gave birth
To sad reflections, mix'd with murm’ring sighs :
A tear escap'd—I startled, but 'twas vain
To try to check the tear, which larger grew;
I whispered 'shame!' but down my cheek it roll'd.
My cot, once happy, I with joy beheld,-
A glimmering taper through its casement played ;
I heard my children-saw my mournful wife.-
"My Edward safe!' she cried, and flying to my arms,
Spotted my breastplate with her pearly tears ;
Two infant boys soon hung about my knees,
And cried out, 'father, welcome home again !'
I then embraced, and was about to speak,
When sleep forsaking my o'er anxious frame,
The pleasing vision died.
My scattered thoughts I called to my aid,
The wind still whistled round my canvass tent-
I heard the sentry's steady march without-
I callid--he answered,-bid me to prepare
For battle on the morrow, there to meet
With rest eternal, or return again
With trumpets, drums, and timbrels loudly playing
The warrior's welcome home.