Thus when thou findest kings in brewing wise,
Or natural history holding lofty station,
Thou mayest conclude, with marveling eyes,
Such kings have had a goodly education.

Now did the king admire the bell so fine,
That daily asks the draymen all to dine:
On which the bell rung out (how very proper!)
To show it was a bell, and had a clapper.

And now before their sovereign's curious eye,
Parents and children, fine, fat, hopeful sprigs,
All snuffling, squinting, grunting in their style,

Appeared the brewer's tribe of handsome pigs:
On which the observant man, who fills a throne,
Declared the pigs were vastly like his own:

On which the brewer, swallowed up in joys,
Tears and astonishment in both his eyes,
His soul brim full of sentiments so loyal,
Exclaimed, "O heavens! and can my swine
Be deemed by majesty so fine!

Heavens! can my pigs compare, sire, with pigs royal!"
To which the king assented with a nod;

On which the brewer bowed, and said, "Good God!" Then winked significant on Miss;

Significant of wonder and of bliss;

Who, bridling in her chin divine,

Crossed her fair hands, a dear old maid,

And then her lowest courtesy made

For such high honor done her father's swine.

Now did his majesty so gracious say

To Mr. Whitbread, in his flying way,

'Whitbread, d'ye nick the excisemen now and then? Hæ, Whitbread, when d'ye think to leave off trade? Hæ? what? Miss Whitbread's still a maid, a maid? What, what's the matter with the men?

"D'ye hunt!-hæ, hunt? No, no, you are too old-
You'll be lord mayor-lord mayor one day—
Yes, yes, I've heard so-yes, yes, so I'm told:
Don't, don't the fine for sheriff pay?

I'll prick you every year, man,
I declare:
Yes, Whitbread-yes, yes-you shall be lord mayor.
"Whitbread, d'ye keep a coach, or job one, pray?

Job, job, that's cheapest; yes, that's best, that's best.
You put your liveries on the draymen-hæ?
Hæ, Whitbread? you have feather'd well your nest.
What, what's the price now, hæ, of all your stock?
But, Whitbread, what's o'clock, pray, what's o'clock?"

Now Whitbread inward said, "May I be cursed
If I know what to answer first;"

Then searched his brains with ruminating eye:
But e'er the man of malt an answer found,
Quick on his heel, lo, majesty turned round,
Skipped off, and baulked the pleasure of reply.

Kings in inquisitiveness should be strong-
From curiosity doth wisdom flow:
For 'tis a maxim I've adopted long,

The more a man inquires, the more he'll know.

Reader, didst ever see a water-spout?

"No."

'Tis possible that thou wilt answer,
Well then! he makes a most infernal rout;

Sucks, like an elephant, the waves below,
With huge proboscis reaching from the sky,
As if he meant to drink the ocean dry:
At length so full he can't hold one drop more-
He bursts-down rush the waters with a roar
On some poor boat, or sloop, or brig, or ship,
And almost sinks the wand'rer of the deep:
Thus have I seen a monarch at reviews,
Suck from the tribe of officers the news,
Then bear in triumph off each wondrous matter,
And souse it on the queen with such a clatter!

I always would advise folks to ask questions;
For, truly, questions are the keys of knowledge:
Soldiers, who forage for the mind's digestions,

Cut figures at the Old Bailey, and at college;
Make chancellors, chief justices, and judges,
Even of the lowest green-bag drudges.

The sages say, Dame Truth delights to dwell,
Strange mansion! in the bottom of a well,
Questions are then the windlass and the rope
That pull the grave old gentlewoman up:
Damn jokes then, and unmannerly suggestions,
Reflecting upon kings for asking questions.

Now having well employed his royal lungs
On nails, hoops, staves, pumps, barrels, and their bungs,
The king and Co. sat down to a collation
Of flesh and fish, and fowl of every nation.
Dire was the clang of plates, of knife and fork,
That merciless fell like tomahawks to work,
And fearless scalped the fowl, the fish, and cattle,
While Whitbread, in the rear, beheld the battle.

The conquering monarch, stopping to take breath
Amidst the regiments of death,

Now turned to Whitbread with complacence round, And, merry, thus addressed the man of beer: "Whitbread, is 't true? I hear, I hear,

You're of an ancient family-renowned—
What? what? I'm told that you're a limb
Of Pym, the famous fellow Pym:
What Whitbread, is it true what people say?
Son of a round-head are you? hæ? hæ? hæ?
I'm told that you send Bibles to your votes-
A snuffling round-headed society—
Prayer-books instead of cash to buy them coats-
Bunyans, and Practices of Piety:

Your Bedford votes would wish to change their fare-
Rather see cash-yes, yes-than books of prayer.

Thirtieth of January don't you feed?

Yes, yes, you eat calf's head, you eat calf's head."

Now having wonders done on flesh, fowl, fish,
Whole hosts o'erturned-and seized on all supplies;

The royal visitors expressed a wish

To turn to House of Buckingham their eyes.

But first the monarch, so polite,

Asked Mr. Whitbread if he'd be a knight.

Unwilling in the list to be enrolled,
Whitbread contemplated the knights of Peg,
Then to his generous sovereign made a leg,
And said, "He was afraid he was too old.
He thanked however his most gracious king,
For offering to make him such a thing."

But, ah! a different reason 't was I fear!
It was not age that bade the man of beer

The proffered honor of the monarch shun:
The tale of Margaret's knife, and royal fright,
Had almost made him damn the name of knight,
A tale that farrowed such a world of fun.

He mocked the prayer too by the king appointed,
Even by himself the Lord's Anointed :—
A foe to fast too, is he, let me tell ye;

And though a Presbyterian, can not think
Heaven (quarrelling with meat and drink)
Joys in the grumble of a hungry belly!

Now from the table with Cæsarean air

Up rose the monarch with his laureled brow,
When Mr. Whitbread, waiting on his chair,
Expressed much thanks, much joy, and made a bow.
Miss Whitbread now so quick her curtsies drops,
Thick as her honored father's Kentish hops;
Which hop-like curtsies were returned by dips
That never hurt the royal knees and hips;

For hips and knees of queens are sacred things,
That only bend on gala days

Before the best of kings,

When odes of triumph sound his praise.—

Now through a thundering peal of kind huzzas,
Proceeding some from hired* and unhired jaws,

* When his majesty goes to a play-house, or brew-house, or parliament, the Lord Chamberlain provides some pounds' worth of mob to huzza their beloved monarch. At the play-house about forty wide-mouthed follows are hired on the night of their majesties' appearance, at two shillings and sixpence per head, with the liberty of seeing the play gratis. These Stentors are placed in different parts of the theater, who, immediately on the royal entry into the stage-box, set up their howl of loyalty; to whom their majesties, with sweetest smiles, acknowledge

The raree-show thought proper to retire;
Whilst Whitbread and his daughter fair
Surveyed all Chiswell-street with lofty air;

For, lo! they felt themselves some six feet higher!

Such, Thomas, is the way to write!

Thus shouldst thou birth-day songs indite;
Then stick to earth, and leave the lofty sky:
No more of ti tum tum, and ti tum ti.

Thus should an honest laureate write of kings-
Not praise them for imaginary things;

I own I can not make my stubborn rhyme
Call every king a character sublime;

For conscience will not suffer me to wander
So very widely from the paths of candor.

I know full well some kings are to be seen,

To whom my verse so bold would give the spleen,
Should that bold verse declare they wanted brains.
I won't say that they never brains possessed-
They may have been with such a present blessed,
And therefore fancy that some still remains;

For every well-experienced surgeon knows,
That men who with their legs have parted,
Swear that they 've felt a pain in all their toes,
And often at the twinges started;

They stared upon their oaken stumps in vain!
Fancying the toes were all come back again.

If men, then, who their absent toes have mourned,
Can fancy those same toes at times returned;
So kings, in matters of intelligences,

May fancy they have stumbled on their senses.

Yes, Tom-mine is the way of writing ode-
Why liftest thou thy pious eyes to God!

the obligation by a genteel bow, and an elegant curtesy. This congratulatory noise of the Stentors is looked on by many, particularly country ladies and gentlemen, as an infallible thermometer, that ascertains the warmth of the national regard.-P. P.