Spoken.] Now, I say, Jim, vy don't you get up? you ought to have been on the stand afore now; cause for why-if you ha been on the stand, you'd been off the stand. Vot's o'clock, I'll tell you 'rectly, Jim,-eh! no, I can't, my vatch has been on the stand, seemingly. How comfortable I have laid, to be sure; von o' your horses' nose bags I've used for a night-cap, and t'other to put my feet in. Now, Sam get the horses readycurricomb 'em directly. Yes, it's very easy to say curricomb 'em; but who's to do it-over bones as sticks out like theirn does? I hung my hat on von o'their hip bones last night, and there it vos this morning, sure enough! Look, Sam, that horse is going to sneeze-hit him a vhack on the flank. Vot for, vot for? Vy, if I vos to suffer that horse to sneeze, it vould shake him all to pieces; vhenever I sees him a making up a face to sneeze, I tips him a knock, and checks the hinclination. See how natural that Butterfirkin puts his head to the corn bin. Ah! if he'd a grain of sense, he vouldn't do that. See how natural he looks at me, as much as to say 'Hay?' Vy a bull leads a better life than von o' your cattle Jim, for a bull does get baited sometimes, and your cattle never does. Ulloa! vhy, vhere's von o' the vheels gone off my cutch I took it off last night, to prevent it running away-they're always coming off, von or t'other, in the street; they're vot I call the vheels of misfortune!' I say Mr. coatchman! I want a coach make haste, I'm terrribly cold. Vell then, get in, and put your hands into my cutch pockets. Ned, lend me half a soveren, vill you? Why? No apology, Ned, I don't require it-give us over the sufferer. Jack, what's the reason that that black mare is so melancholy. Vhy, she vos vonce put into a mourning-coach, and the poor thing never recovered the shock properly.

This is a cab age, &c.

The Jarvey never gets a lift,
Without giving one to others;
Like a duck, he likes a rainy day,

When mist and snow down smothers.
He's e'er prepared to meet each wish,
Whatever wind may blow, sirs;

His care is joined in a bowl,

And is only joy is wo! sirs.

Spoken.] I say, Jim, don't you see you're called? that voman, yonder, at the door, vants you. Coach, coach !-let down the steps, coachman-drat it! how the wind blows-my candle spits -I can't come out coachman, or my candle will go out; these two children are going back again to school at Rochester-you

must take them to Lad Lane to meet the coach. Good by, my little dears! good by! [Aside.] The nasty ugly little whelps. -Good by! Now then, ya hip! st-st-st! go along, Butterfirkin! gee oh! Oh, crikey! oh! stop the coach, if you please. What's the matter? Oh! I've left half-a-dozen marbles behind. Now then, jump up, my little dears. Dorchester, Dorchester! jump up. Where are these children going to, sir? Dorchester. Jump up. Now then, all's right, go along! Good by, children ! good by! I say, Jack-how vet am, I haven't a dry thread about me. Ulloa! what coach is this coming up! The Rochester coach, sir. The Rochester! why, that's the coach I should have sent the children by! the names of Dorchester and Rochester sounded so much alike, that I have sent 'em to Dorchester, instead of Rochester-never mind, there's as good schools at one place as at t'other. I was at a knackerdammy there once myself. How do, Mr. Fagan? Sure I'm very well, thank you! I've come to look for a gentleman that is lost. A gentleman lost! where? Here read this bill. [Reads.] Lost! an elderly gentleman, about forty-five years of age-with a wart on his left hand-ferocious look. Had on a blue faded coat, white waistcoat all over snuff, a papermachee snuff-box in his pocket ; two seals, one marked W. R. the other U. N. R. He was last seen to be lifted into a hackney coach-he told the coachman to drive him to the devil; but the coachman refused to go, unless he would insure him the back fare. Whoever has found the said gentleman, will receive two pounds' reward! No greater reward will be offered, as his disconsolate friends will not give more than the value.' This is a cab age, &c.

The Jarvey bears the brunt of all,
Their scoffing and their jesting;

And seldom gets a civil word,

For each seems him molesting.

He's food for every jester's mirth:
And his horses have their chaffing,-
His rattle they play with in style,
There's no end to their laughing.

Spoken.] I say, old fellow-you've nearly stove my coach in with your pole-but never mind. I don't. Jack, your mare's gone to sleep. Never mind! vait till I gets a fare, and see vot a cut I'll gee her. Coachman (hic) drive me to (hic) to the the.. atre. Which on 'em, sir? Which you like-which is (hio) which is best! I say, look, here comes a black footman-in white livery. Dam oo imprace, massa-what oo make game on him for.

L

I hope no offence. Do you want a coach, mungo? No, me wan no coach-me in a hurry, massa. Crikey, Jack! what a pair o'bandy legs tea pot's got. No, him legs am bery well, massa, only him got debilish crooked stocking on. I say, aggrawating Sam, vot's the vorth o' your two knackers? Vy, that von's vorth von pound five alive, and sixteen bob when dead. Why, he's worth as much dead as alive, then? what do you keep him for? Vy, can't you tell !—to make them like a pair. The other von does all the work. Ve calls the lazy von Sinecaure. I'll toss you for a pot, Long Bob. A pot o' what? A pot o' vot you likes. Small, home-brewed, table, or any thing else, so as it ain't the lament table. I toss'd up a ha'penney-where's it gone? I think it must have dropp'd into the horse's ear. Now let us go into the Marquis of Granby's Head. Pray, sir, is the Marquis of Granby a general? No, he's a Inn-sign. I say, father, don't drink all that beer, save us a drop. There, my boy-the boy likes a drop-he takes after his father. Yes, may take after youbut I take wery little, though. What's the reason that hackney coachman sits there, with his spectacles on. Oh! he's waiting for a fare-he's asleep, but don't want to know it. Sam, vot are you summons'd for? Nothing, nothing, only for being sarcy, and taking eight shillings more than my fare. Long Bob-don't you hit your cattle about like that; vy don't you hit 'em all alike? not strike von on the stomach and t'other on the head. Oh! I'm trying to oblige 'em-von likes it in von place and t'other on t'other.

This is cab age, &c.

DEATH AND BURIAL OF A CHILD AT SEA.

My boy refused his food, forgot to play,
And sicken'd on the waters, day by day;
He smiled more seldom on his mother's smile,

He prattled less, in accent void of guile,
Of that wild land, beyond the golden wave,
Where I, not he, was doomed to be a siave;
Cold o'er his limbs the listless languor grew;
Paleness came o'er his eye of placid blue;
Pale mourned the lily where the rose had died,
And timid, trembling, came he to my side.
He was my all on earth. Oh! who can speak
The anxious mother's too prophetic wo,
Who sees death feeding on her dear child's cheek,
And strives in vain to think it is not so?
Ah! many a sad and sleepless night I passed,

O'er his couch, listening in the pausing blast,

While on his brow, more sad from hour to hour,
Drooped wan dejection, like a fading flower!

At length my boy seemed better, and I slept-
Oh, soundly!-but, methought my mother wept
O'er her poor Emma; and, in accents low,
Said, "Ah! why do I weep-and weep in vain
For one so loved, so lost? Emma, thy pain
Draws to a close! Even now is rent in twain
The loveliest link that binds thy breast to wo-
Soon, broken heart, we soon shall meet again."
Then o'er my face her freezing hand she crossed,
And bending, kissed me with her lip of frost.
I waked; and at my side-oh! still and cold!-
Oh what a tale that dreadful chillness told!
Shrieking, I started up, in terror wild;
Alas! and had I lived to dread my child?
Eager I snatched him from his swinging bed;
His limbs were stiff-he moved not-he was dead!
Oh! let me weep!-what mother would not weep,
To see her child committed to the deep?

No mournful flowers, by weeping fondness laid,
Nor pink, nor rose, drooped, on his breast displayed,
Nor half-blown daisy, in his little hand:-
Wide was the field around, but 'twas not land.
Enamoured death, with sweetly pensive grace,
Was awful beauty to his silent face.

No more his sad eye looked me into tears!
Closed was that eye beneath his pale, cold brow;
And on his calm lips, which had lost their glow,
But which, though pale, seemed half unclosed to speak,
Loitered, a smile, like moonlight on the snow.

I gazed upon him still,-not wild with fears-
Gone were my fears, and present was despair!
But, as I gazed, a little lock of hair,

Stirred by the breeze, played, trembling, on his cheek;
Oh, God! my heart!-I thought life still was there.
But to commit him to the watery grave,

O'er which the winds, unwearied mourners, rave—
One, who strove darkly sorrow's sob to stay,
Upraised the body; thrice I bade him stay;
For still my worldless woe had much to say,
And still I bent and gazed, and gazing wept.
At last my sisters, with humane constraint,
Held me, and I was calm as dying saint;
While that stern weeper lowered into the sea
My ill-starred boy! deep-buried deep, he slept.
And then I looked to heaven in agony,

And prayed to end my pilgrimage of pain,

That I might meet my beauteous boy again!

Oh! had he lived to reach this wretched land,

And then expired, I would have blessed the strand.
But where my poor boy lies, I may not lie;

I cannot come, with broken heart, to sigh

O'er his loved dust, and strew with flowers his turf;
His pillow has no cover but the surf;

I may not pour the soul-drop from mine eye
Near his cold bed: he slumbers in the wave!
Oh! I will love the sea, because it is his grave;

HANDS versus HEADS.

I THINK the hand must certainly be a more important member than the head; for we all know, if a man lose his hand, he is subjected to much inconvenience which cannot be disguised; whereas if a man lose his head, there's an end of all his troubles, and he never complains about the matter. Again, if a man should be born without a head, although it might at first be thought he would cut a very strange figure in the world, yet we know from experience otherwise. We know that such a man may be a good neighbour, a loyal subject, and indeed, an excellent parishofficer. Suppose the same man without an arm-still he is better, for if there's any treason abroad, he's sure to have no hand in it; although this may not say much for his honesty, inasmuch as the world may call him light-fingered. I am willing to take both sides of the question, but still I cannot avoid a little partiality in the favour of hands. I hope every person present has not lived so long in the world, without being three or four times in imminent danger of going out of it. If this has been the case, I must triumph in one position; does the doctor deal with his head no, he applies to the hand. Go to a lawyer, ask him for a single monosyllable, and we all know, before he opens his mouth -he holds out his hand. There is a current from the palm to all the other functions and moral capacities of man. The hand may be said to contain all the channels in the moral world ;—. from the hand of a lawyer it washes the Cape of Good Hope, and abounds in flat. In the miser, it is the Frozen Ocean. In the doctor, too frequently, the Dead Sea. In the slave merchant, it is the Atlantic, for it keeps the whites from the blacks. The parson's hand holds the parish stream. Every man contributes a share-in the hand of the tax-gatherer, is the Bay of Biscay, for what falls in, there is no knowing where it goes to; in the hand of the man of the world, is the petrefying spring of Derbyshire, for whatever is put into it, comes out a stone,-and in the hand of the man of charity, is the blessed Nile, for its overflowings