THE PREMIER AND THE PLOUGHMAN. [From the Morning Chronicle, Nov. 5.] ONCE on a time, and that not long ago, (The story's true I vow,) A certain Minister Went with his friend down to a Cornish borough, But, as it happen'd, to his sorrow, A rival candidate had got priority; And as his purse was long, the voters greedy, At Gatton, Midhurst, or at Wareham, Or e'en at populous Old Sarum. The wily May'r at distance had discern'd him, The Minister, o'erjoy'd at this conclusion, Sent for the lout, call'd him his friend, his brother, And as one good turn, sure, deserves another, Heap'd on him promises in vast profusion. "What can I do to show my gratitude? Whate'er you ask is yours-a place-a pensionYou've done your country (that is, me) such good, By heav'n I promise you whate'er you mention." "An' please your Lordship's Worship," bowing low, The Farmer said, you do confuse me zo, Your And soon o'erturn'd the debt-encumber'd foe; (Pointing to Lord H's box.) THE TWO BUSBYS. "Use every man according to his deserts, and who shall escape whipping?" [From the Morning Chronicle.] ERST, Doctor Busby the terrific Virga HAMLET. Applied with vigour to each urchin's Terga. Now (tit for tat!) let every urchin come, And tickle up the modern Busby's b Oct. 23, 1812. BIRCH THE SQUIRE AND HIS DOGS: A FABLE. IN [From the Morning Herald, Nov. 3.] N Wales, sweet pretty principality, Then time brings death, Who stops the breath Of men, And ther We fall,-e'en so poor dogs must die. For the old hound Who staunch was found, In sport or labour often tried, 3 Lick'd the fond hand that gave them meat, And, faithful as he serv'd him, died!- But 't was a sorry sight, I've heard, So ruin'd, and the breed so crost, So mix'd with Greys, and White and Black, A broad-back'd pug would take the lead And a tall mangey Grey-hound hunt Who must be fed-on hot cross buns! But who, from the nature of the breed, They'd Your Honour's koindness to me 's quite distrezzing➡ I want no place nor pension, Zur, not I— But zin' you are so prezzing, I've a young lad, who, thof' he's zummut shy, A little place i' th' Custom House, Excize, or- "Ay, but," says Clod, " you great volk, they do zay, In Lunnun town be never to be zeen: Zuppose, when I ha' journey'd all thick way, And reach'd your houze, they should no' let me in." "Poh! poh!" the Statesman quick replied, Sleeping or waking-be it night or day, You're always sure to find me in the way ; 66 no more Damme," (for Lords can swear,) "knock at the door; Take no denial, onward boldly venture, Nay, though I'm in my bed-room, enter Say but the fellow 's dead, (I tell no lies, man,) By G your son shall then be made exciseman." This said, the Ploughman and the Statesman parted; A coach and four Was at the door, And in the latter darted. Smack went the whip, away he shot; To London quick his course he bent, His mind on other things intent The Farmer, Son, Mayor, Borough-all forgot. Some weeks elaps'd-the Premier fail'd To satisfy the nation, He had not made a single hit, And, truth to say, (though vile intrigue prevail'd,) For such a station! One One little secret darling project still, In spite of Opposition's brawl, He trusted would his warmest hopes fulfil, And settle all. A treaty long had been upon the tapis With ; fram'd with skill so happy, It could not fail; Nor Whitworth, nor Cornwallis, nor Fitzharris, And now the telegraph at Dover And that, besides, he'd learnt, along the coast, The messenger expecting in the night, Home went th' exulting Peer; but ere he did Gave charge that, come what hour the courier might, The clock struck three-the watchman went his round, "He is, an' pleaze your Grace," replied the boor. "Yezterday morning, Zur, at half past fourHe's dead indeed! And zin you'd scorn, you zaid, to tell a lie, I hopes you'll let my zon zucceed." "Succeed |