Monsieur, obsequious, heard him speak,
And answer'd John in heathen Greek:
To all he ask'd, 'bout all he saw,
'Twas, Monsieur, je vous n'entends pas.

John, to the Palais-Royal come,
Its splendour almost struck him dumb.
'I say, whose house is that there here?'
'House! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur.
'What, Nongtongpaw again!' cries John;
This fellow is some mighty Don:
No doubt he's plenty for the maw,
I'll breakfast with this Nongtongpaw.'

John saw Versailles from Marli's height, And cried, astonish'd at the sight, 'Whose fine estate is that there here?' 'State! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur.' 'His? what! the land and houses too? The fellow's richer than a Jew:

On everything he lays his claw!

I should like to dine with Nongtongpaw.'

Next tripping came a courtly fair,
John cried, enchanted with her air,

'What lovely wench is that there here!'
'Ventch! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur.
'What, he again? Upon my life!
A palace, lands, and then a wife
Sir Joshua might delight to draw:
I should like to sup with Nongtongpaw.

But hold! whose funeral's that?' cries John. Je vous n'entends pas.-'What, is he gone? Wealth, fame, and beauty could not save Poor Nongtongpaw then from the grave! His race is run, his game is up,-I'd with him breakfast, dine and sup; But since he choses to withdraw, Good night t' ye, Mounseer Nongtongpaw!'

A TALE OF A TANKARD.

No plate had John and Joan to hoard;
Plain folk in humble plight :

One only tankard crown'd their board,
And that was fill'd each night!

Along whose inner bottom, sketch'd,
In pride of chubby grace,

Some rude engraver's hand had etch'd
A baby Angel's face.

John swallow'd, first, a mod'rate sup;

But Joan was not like John;

For, when her lips once touch'd the cup,
She drank till all was gone.

John often urged her to drink fair;
But she ne'er changed a jot:
She loved to see the Angel there,

And therefore drain'd the pot.

When John found all remonstrance vain,
Another card he play'd;

And, where the Angel stood so plain,
A devil got portray'd.

Joan saw the horns, Joan saw the tail,
Yet Joan as stoutly quaff'd ;
And ever, when she seized her ale,
She clear'd it at a draught.

John stared, with wonder petrified !

His hair rose on his pate,

And 'Why do you drink now,' he cried,
'At this enormous rate?'

'O John,' says she, 'am I to blame?
I can't, in conscience, stop:

For, sure, 'twould be a burning shame,
To leave the Devil a drop !'

A NEW SONG OF NEW SIMILES.

JOHN GAY.

John Gay, a poet and satirist of the days of Queen Anne, was born 1688 and died 1732. The works by which he is best known are Trivia, The Beggar's Opera, and Fables.

My passion is as mustard strong;

I sit all sober sad;

Drunk as a piper all day long,

Or like a March-hare mad.

Round as a hoop the bumpers flow;
I drink, yet can't forget her ;
For though as drunk as David's sow,
I love her still the better.

Pert as a pear-monger I'd be,
If Molly were but kind;
Cool as a cucumber could see

The rest of womankind.

Like a stuck pig, I gaping stare,
And eye her o'er and o'er ;
Lean as a rake, with sighs and care,
Sleek as a mouse before.

Plump as a partridge was I known,
And soft as silk my skin;

My cheeks as fat as butter grown,
But as a goat now thin!

I, melancholy as a cat,

Am kept awake to weep; But she, insensible of that, Sound as a top can sleep.

Hard is her heart as flint or stone,
She laughs to see me pale ;
And merry as a grig is grown,
And brisk as bottled ale.

The god of love, at her approach,
Is busy as a bee;

Hearts, sound as any bell or roach,
Are smit and sigh like me.

Ah me! as thick as hops or hail
The fine men crow'd about her;
But soon as dead as a door-nail

Shall I be, if without her.

Straight as my leg her shape appears,
Oh, were we joined together!
My heart would be scot-free from cares
And lighter than a feather.

As fine as fivepence is her mien,
No drum was ever tighter;
Her glance is as the razor keen,
And not the sun is brighter.

As soft as pap her kisses are,
Methinks I taste them yet;
Brown as a berry is her hair,
Her eyes as black as jet.

As smooth as glass, as white as curds
Her pretty hand invites ;

Sharp as her needle are her words,
Her wit like pepper bites.

Brisk as a body-louse she trips,
Clean as a penny drest ;