When Royalty was young and bold,

Who borrows all your ready cash?

Who can sound the Sapphic shell,

Who has e'er been at Paris must needs know the Greve,
Who has e'er been in London, that overgrown place,
Why call the miser miserable?

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Would you see a man that's slow?

Ye sons of the platter, give ear,

The Book of Humorous Poetry.

TO MY EMPTY PURSE.

CHAUCER.

To you, my purse, and to none other wight,
Complain I, for ye by my lady dear;
I am sorry now that ye be light,

For, certes, ye now make me heavy cheer;
Me were as lief be laid upon a bier,
For which unto your mercy thus I cry,
Be heavy again, or elle's must I die.

Now, vouchsafe this day or it be night,
That I of you the blissful sound may hear
Or see your colour like the sunné bright,
That of yellowness had never peer ;
Ye be my life, ye be my hearte's steer,
Queen of comfort and of good company,
Be heavy again, or elle's must I die.

Now purse, thou art to me my live's light,
And saviour, as down in this world here,

A

Out of this town help me by your might,
Sithea that you will not be my treasure ;
For I am shave as nigh as any frere,
But I prayen unto your courtesy
Be heavy again, or elle's must I die.

THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS.

PETER PINDAR.

Dr. John Wolcot, better known by his nom de plume Peter Pindar, an excellent and voluminous writer of humorous and satirical poetry, was born at Dodbrooke, Devonshire, in 1738. He obtained the degree of M.D. from the University of Aberdeen in 1767, and immediately afterwards he accompanied Sir William Trelawney, who had been appointed governor of the island, to Jamaica. He returned to England and settled in Cornwall, where he discovered and drew from obscurity the painter Opie, with whom he removed to London in 1780. On arriving in the metropolis he devoted himself to literature; and soon became conspicuous by his political satires and humorous effusions, which, published at short intervals, speedily became highly popular. In the decline of life he lost his sight, and he died in 1819. Many of the writings of Dr. Wolcot are of a personal and ephemeral nature, and a few are marred by a coarseness which renders them unfit for reproduction in the present day; but a great portion of them, a few of which are introduced in the present volume, are distinguished by a raciness of humour, and a freshness and vivacity of style, which has been often imitated, but very rarely equalled.

A BRACE of sinners, for no good,

Were order'd to the Virgin Mary's shrine,
Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood,

And in a fair white wig look'd wondrous fine.

Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel,

With something in their shoes much worse than gravel; In short, their toes so gentle to amuse,

The priest had order'd peas into their shoes :

A nostrum, famous in old Popish times,
For purifying souls that stunk with crimes;

A. sort of apostolic salt,

That Popish parsons for its power exalt,
For keeping souls of sinners sweet,
Just as our kitchen-salt keeps meat.

The knaves set off on the same day,
Peas in their shoes to go and pray :

But very different was their speed, I wot:
One of the sinners gallop'd on,

Light as a bullet from a gun ;

The other limp'd as if he had been shot.

One saw the Virgin soon-peccavi cried—
Had his soul whitewash'd all so clever;
Then home again he nimbly hied,

Made fit with saints above to live for ever.

In coming back, however, let me say,

He met his brother-rogue about half way,

Hobbling with outstretch'd hams and bended knees,
Damning the souls and bodies of the peas;
His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brow in sweat,
Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.

'How now,' the light-toed, white-wash'd pilgrim broke,

'You lazy lubber!'

'Odds curse it !' cried the other, ''tis no joke;

My feet, once hard as any rock,

Are now as soft as blubber.

'Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear :
As for Loretto, I shall not go there;
No! to the Devil my sinful soul must go,
For hang me if I ha'n't lost every toe.

'But, brother sinner, do explain

How 'tis that you are not in pain?

What power hath work'd a wonder for your toes?
Whilst I, just like a snail, am crawling,

Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling,
Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes?

'How is't that you can like a greyhound go,

Merry as if nought had happen'd, burn ye?'
'Why,' cried the other, grinning. ' you must know,
That, just before I ventured on my journey,
To walk a little more at ease,

I took the liberty to boil my peas.'

SAINT ANTHONY'S SERMON TO THE FISHES.

'Ulrich Megerle, a barefooted Augustine friar of the seventeenth century, adopted the affectation about names then in fashion, and called himself Abraham à Sancta Clara. He was a preacher, of the dramatic and picturesque order, enlivening his pulpit scenes