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Vault o'er the plain, and in the tangled wood,
Lo, dead Eliza, weltering in her blood.-

Soon hears his list'ning son the welcome sounds,
With open arms and sparkling eyes he bounds-
Speak low," he cries, and gives his little hand,
"Eliza sleeps upon the dew cold sand;"

66

Poor weeping babe, with bloody fingers prest,
And tried with pouting lips her milkless breast.
"Alas, we both with cold and hunger quake!
"Why do you weep ?-mamma will soon awake."
"She'll wake no more," the hopeless mourner cried;
Upraised his eyes to heaven, he clasp'd his hands and
sigh'd:

Stretch'd on the ground, awhile entranced he lay,
And press'd warm kisses on the lifeless clay;
And then upsprung, with wild convulsive start,
And all the father kindled in his heart!

"Oh, Heavens," he cried," my first rash vow forgive! "These bind to earth-for these I pray to live." Round his chill babes he wrapp'd his crimson vest, And clasp'd them sobbing to his aching breast.

HONESTY.

Three friends once, in the course of conversation,
Touch'd upon honesty. "No virtue better,"
Says Dick, quite lost in sweet self-admiration;
"I'm sure I'm honest-ay, beyond the letter.
You know the field I farm; well, underground,
My plough stuck in the middle of a furrow,
And there a pot of silver coins I found;

My landlord has it, without fail, to-morrow!"
So modestly his good intents he told.

But wait," says Bob; 66 we soon shall see who's best. A stranger left with me uncounted gold;

And I don't touch it!!! Which is honestest?" "Your deeds are pretty good," says Jack; " but I Have done much better (oh, that all folks learn'd it!) Hear, then, the highest pitch of honesty

I borrow'd an umbrella-and return'd it! ! !"

FALSTAFF'S DESCRIPTION OF HIS RAGGED REGIMENT.

If I be not ashamed of my soldiers, I am a soused gurnet. I have misused the king's press most damnably. I have got, in exchange of a hundred and fifty soldiers, three hundred and odd pounds. I press me none but good householders-yeomen's sons; inquire me out contracted bachelors, such as have been asked twice on the banns; such a commodity of warm slaves, as had as lief hear the devil as a drum; such as fear the report of a caliver worse than a stuck fowl, or a hurt wild duck. I press me none but such toasts and butter, with hearts in their bellies no bigger than pins' heads; and they have bought out their services: and now my whole charge consists of ancients, corporals, lieutenants, gentlemen of companies, slaves as ragged as Lazarus in the painted cloth, when the glutton's dogs licked his sores; and such as, indeed, were never soldiers, but discarded, unjust servingmen, younger sons to younger brothers, revolted tapsters and ostlers, trade-fallen; the cankers of a calm world, and a long peace; ten times more dishonourably ragged than an old-faced ancient and such have Ï, to fill up the room of them that have bought out their services, that you would think that I had a hundred and fifty tattered prodigals, lately come from swinekeeping, from eating draff and husks. A mad fellow met me on the way, and told me, I had unloaded al! the gibbets, and pressed the dead bodies. No eye hath seen such scarecrows. I'll not march through Coventry with them--that's flat; nay, the villains march wide betwixt the legs, as if they had gyves on; for, indeed, I had the most of them out of prison. There's but a shirt and a half in all my company; and the half shirt is two napkins tacked together, and thrown over the shoulders like a herald coat without sleeves! and the shirt, to say the truth, stolen from my host at St. Albans, or the red-nosed innkeeper at Daintry? But that's all one, they'll find linen enough on every hedge.

TIT FOR TAT;

OR, THE IRISH OFFICER AND HIS SERVANT.

A certain colonel (who had a strange humour, when he had drank a glass or two too much, of firing off and playing tricks with his weapons) one night, having drank rather too freely, ordered his footman, who was an Irishman newly hired, to bring his pistols. Teague obeyed the colonel loaded them both, and, having locked the door, commanded his man to hold one of the candles at arm's length, till he snuffed it with the ball. Prayers and entreaties were in vain, and comply he must, and did, though trembling. The colonel performed the operation at the first attempt; then laying down his pistols, was going to unlock the door. Teague catches up that which was loaded, Arrah, maisther," says he," but I'll be after having my shoot now." The colonel called him rogue and rascal to no purpose. Teague was now invested with power, and would be obeyed. Accordingly his master extended the candle, but this being the first time of Teague's performing, he not only missed, but shot off a button from the breast of the colonel's coat. So narrow an escape had a good effect, and cured him of his humour of turning marksman in his drink.

THE ELDEST SON;

OR, THE IRISHMAN PUZZLED.

66

How Pat Motley stared, when he heard that his mother,
Who'd been ten years a widow, had married another!
By turns he ran frantic, then again melancholy;
And often denounced his mother's base folly.

A friend chanced to call, very friendly, to chat,
And to soothe, if he possibly could, his friend Pat,
"Oh!" says Pat, "what a monster my mother must
prove,

Very near fifty-three, and be dying with love!" "Never mind," said his friend, "never heed it, my honey!

"The estate is all your's, boy, as sure as a gun; "For it can't go away from her eldest son;" [she, "Aye," says Pat, "that is right; but I'm thinking that "Now she's married, may have a son older than me."

THE IRISHMAN AND THE SALAD OIL.

One Patrick O'Blunder, just come from Kilkenny,
Who, ere he reach'd England, had spent his last penny,
Was hired as a servant to one Sir James Trueland
(I believe no relation to Abraham Newland),
Who the very next week set off post to town,
With the whole of his family and his new Irish clown.
When to London he got, the good honest knight
Thought a dinner would please them, although 'twas
near night;

So the servants prepared a fine piece of roast beef,
A salad was also a part of their cheer,

Which the knight said he'd dress, but no oil was there;
And the servants being busy, he says to his man,
"Here, Patrick, run off now, as fast as you can,
"And the first shop you come to, inquire for some oil,
"And make you haste back, or the dinner will spoil."
So full drive set off Pat, and soon knock'd down a
quaker.

The first shop he came to was kept by a baker; "Sir, I want just two quarts of your best eating oil, "Make haste, my dear honey, or the salad will spoil." "Why, man," says the baker," we sell it not here." "Arrah, then, cried Pat, "you can tell me, my dear, "Where it is to be got-I hope it's not far?"

"Oh, no!" answered he; "do you see yonder jar?" "A jar! what's a jar?" then cries Pat with surprise : ""Tis the brown thing on the post-why you've surely no eyes.'

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Off Pat quickly sets, to the oilman's he came, "Pray, Sir, I've been told Mr. Jar is your name." "Jar! Jar!" cries the man; "why you're joking, sure; "My name is not Jar-there's a jar at the door;

"But what do you want?" why you're quite in a broil." "An't please you," says Pat, "I want some good oil. "And pray now make haste, or my master will caper." "But what'll you put it in?"-"Why, put it in paper." "In paper! why, man, it's a liquid you see, "And thus to be carried it never can be."

"Why then," cries O'Blunder, "put it into my hat, "I'll crush down the crown-what think you of that?" The oilman, the joke was unwilling to lose, So to do as Pat bid him, he did not refuse; And poured in as much as the crown would contain, But still a small share of the oil did remain. "Where is this to be put ?" Pat a cavity found In the side of his hat, and soon turn'd it half round! Then pour'd the rest in, and set off in great haste, His hat under his arm, but made terrible waste; For the oil ran all down him, even into his shoes, Which did many passengers greatly amuse.

When he came to the door, at the window there stood Sir James, who, through wroth, had a face red as blood, "You rascal," says he, "what a pickle you're in, "Who the deuce has bedaub'd you? and where have you been?

"What's that in your hat?"-"The oil, Sir," Pat cries.

"Why there's not a quart here," the master replies:
"Oh, no, but you see, sir, I've more on this side:"
"I see none," the master directly replied.

""Tis here, Sir," cries Pat; and, to end the disaster,
He spilt all the oil that was left on his master.
The ladies, amused with this unlucky hit,
With laughing seem'd ready to fall in a fit.
Sir James was at first in a terrible passion,
For his clothes look'd as if they had many a splash on;
He call'd his new footman a great Irish calf,

But, before it was long, join'd the rest in the laugh.
Poor Pat look'd quite sheepish, had nothing to say,
For he fear'd that his master would turn him away;
But in this was deceived, for he lives with him still,
But ne'er fetches oil, so no more he can spill.

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