THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT.

THE noble king of Brentford

Was old and very sick;

He summoned his physicians

To wait upon him quick;

They stepped into their coaches,
And brought their best physick.

They crammed their gracious master
With potion and with pill;

They drenched him and they bled him:
They could not cure his ill.

"Go fetch," says he, "my lawyer;
I'd better make my will."

The monarch's royal mandate

The lawyer did obey ;

The thought of six-and-eightpence
Did make his heart full gay.
"What is't," says he, "your majesty
Would wish of me to-day?"

"The doctors have belabored me
With potion and with pill:
My hours of life are counted,
O man of tape and quill!
Sit down and mend a pen or two,
I want to make my will.

"O'er all the land of Brentford I'm lord and eke of Kew:

I've three per cents and five per cents ;

My debts are but a few;

And to inherit after me

I have but children two.

"Prince Thomas is my

eldest son,

A sober prince is he;

And from the day we breeched him,

Till now he's twenty-three,

He never caused disquiet

To his poor mamma or me.

"At school they never flogged him;

At college, though not fast,

Yet his little go and great go

He creditably passed,

And made his year's allowance
For eighteen months to last.

"He never owed a shilling,

Went never drunk to bed,

He has not two ideas

Within his honest head;

In all respects he differs

From my second son, Prince Ned.

"When Tom has half his income
Laid by at the year's end,
Poor Ned has ne'er a stiver

That rightly he may spend,
But sponges on a tradesman,
Or borrows from a friend.

"While Tom his legal studies
Most soberly pursues,

Poor Ned must pass his mornings
A-dawdling with the Muse;
While Tom frequents his banker,

Young Ned frequents the Jews.

"Ned drives about in buggies,

Tom sometimes takes a 'bus;

Ah, cruel fate, why made you
My children differ thus?
Why make of Tom a dullard,
And Ned a genius?"

"You'll cut him with a shilling,"

Exclaimed the man of wits:

"I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford, "Sir Lawyer, as befits;

And portion both their fortunes

Unto their several wits."

"Your grace knows best," the lawyer said, "On your commands I wait." "Be silent, sir," says Brentford, "A plague upon your prate! Come, take you pen and paper, And write as I dictate."

The will, as Brentford spoke it,
Was writ, and signed, and closed;

He bade the lawyer leave him,

And turned him round, and dozed; And next week in the churchyard

The good old king reposed.

Tom, dressed in crape and hatband,

Of mourners was the chief;

In bitter self-upbraidings

Poor Edward showed his grief;

Tom hid his fat, white countenance

In his pocket handkerchief.

Ned's eyes were full of weeping,

He faltered in his walk;

Tom never shed a tear,

But onwards he did stalk,

As pompous, black, and solemn,
As any catafalque.

And when the bones of BrentfordThat gentle king and just — With bell, and book, and candle, Were duly laid in dust,

"Now, gentlemen," says Thomas,

"Let business be discussed.

"When late our sire beloved

Was taken deadly ill,

Sir Lawyer, you attended him,
(I mean to tax your bill;)
And, as you signed and wrote it,

I pr'ythee read the will.”