Yon trembling coward, who forsook his master!
Journeying with this intent, I pass'd these towers,
And, Heaven directed, came this day to do
The happy deed that gilds my humble name.

THE GENERAL CONFLAGRATION.

At the destined hour,

By the loud trumpet summon'd to the charge,
See all the formidable sons of fire,

Eruptions, earthquakes, comets, lightnings play
Their various engines: all at once disgorge

Their blazing magazines; and all take by storm,
This poor terrestrial citadel of man.

YOUNG.

IT'S ON THE MORN OF ST. VALENTINE'S DAY.

AIR.---Corporal Jenkins.

It's on the morn of St. Valentine's day,

With letters the ladies may roast, man;

The fools take them in, and the twopences pay,

So there's plenty of work for the postman.

Then Miss in her teens gets up early,
And creates a rare hurley burley,

Gets up at seven
Instead of eleven,

To take in her letters on Valentine's day.

Spoken.] Oh! mamma, do lend me twopence; here's a walentine come. How dare you ask me such a thing! Go up into the nursery; ask the maid to wash your face and put you on a clean pinafore. I'll valentine you, you little baggage-Jane? Yes, marm. Run and put these seventeen letters in the post; and, do you hear? don't say a word to your master. (Man's voice.) Jane! Jane! I say, some hot water here directly. Oh, Lord! what shall I do? Here's master coming down stairswhat shall I do with the letters? I think my mistress will get into the hot water now. How now, Jane, how dare you not to answer when I call? what are you going to do with those letters? answer me-Speak-are you dumb ?-by-Oh! sir, don't swear; mistress told me not to say a word to you. Is this the way, madam, to behave, after we've been married a matter of fifteen years! Well, my dear, don't be jealous; it's only a little frolic-for,

It's on the morn, &c.

This is the day that poor swells get served out,
And laughed at, and jeered by the lasses;
Each failing, each fault's sure to be found out,
Some are monkeys, some fools, and some asses.
Each woman then boasts of her power,
She a valentine gets ev'ry hour.

Yes, if she is pretty,
Good-natured, and witty,

She's lots of amusement on Valentine's day.

Spoken.] Ha! my dear Julia, do you know I've not received one valentine all this blessed morning, and I'm dying for a hus. band. I don't wonder at that, for it's not very likely any one would marry or send a valentine to a girl with a rice pudding face, and two squinting eyes-really, my dear, I'm very sorry for you, but I've had a score myself, one in particular-let ine look! bless me; I think this Valentine must have come from Some Orson. Why so? Because it's evidently written by a Wild Man. (Fop's voice.) Charles, tell James to bring up my chocolate. Yes, sir. And, Charles, should any letters arrive, let me have them on the instant. Yes, sir. And, Charles, tell the man to call again for the money; as, should there be any hoax, he must take them back. Yes, sir. And, Charles, if he won't leave them, pay the postage yourself. Yes, sir; I wish you may get it. And, Charles. Yes, sir. Oh! nothing; you may go. Dear me! I know I shall be pestered with some hundred valentines; the dear creatures are so infernally fond of me. (A knock.) Come in. A letter, sir. Paid? No sir. So much the worse, then. Now for it; this is from Fanny, or Susan, or Henrietta, or-(opens a letter, and holds it out, containing an ass's head with long ears, &c.) The devil! Here John-Thomas-Charles; who dared to take this in? I'll— but I suppose I must take it in good part; for

It's on the morn, &c.

NED BOLTON.

A JOLLY comrade in the port, a fearless mate at sea;
When I forget thee, to my hand false may the cutlass be!
And may my gallant battle-flag be stricken down in shame,
If, when the social can goes round, I fail to pledge thy name !
Up, up, my lads!-his memory !-we'll give it with a cheer-
Ned Bolton, the commander of the Black Snake privateer!

Poor Ned! he had a heart of steel, with neither flaw nor speck;
Firm as a rock, in strife or storm, he stood the quarter deck;
He was, I trow, a welcome man to many an Indian dame,
And Spanish planters cross'd themselves at whisper of his name;
But now, Jamaica girls may weep-rich Dons securely smile-
His bark will take no prize again, nor e'er touch Indian isle.

'Sblood! 'twas a sorry fate he met on his own mother wave,-
The foe far off, the storm asleep, and yet to find a grave!
With store of the Peruvian gold, and spirit of the cane,

No need would he have had to cruise in tropic climes again;
But some are born to sink at sea, and some to hang on shore,
And Fortune cried, God speed! at last, and welcomed Ned no more.

'Twas off the coast of Mexico-the tale is bitter brief

The Black Snake, under press of sail, stuck fast upon a reef;
Upon a cutting coral reef-scarce a good league from land-

But hundreds, both of horse and foot, were ranged upon the strand;
His boats were lost before Cape Horn, and with an old canoe,
Even had he number'd ten for one, what could Ned Bolton do!

Six days and nights the vessel lay upon the coral reef,
Nor favouring gale, nor friendly flag, brought prospect of relief ;
For a land-breeze the wild one pray'd, who never pray'd before,
And when it came not at his call, he bit his lip and swore;
The Spaniards shouted from the beach, but did not venture near,
Too well they knew the mettle of the daring privateer!

A calm-a calmı!-a hopeless calm!-the red sun burning high,
Glared blisteringly and wearily in a transparent sky,

The grog went round the gasping crew, and loudly rose the song,
The only pastime at an hour when rest seem'd far too long.
So boisterously they took their rouse upon the crowded deck,
They look'd like men who had escap'd, not fear'd a sudden wreck.

Up sprung the breeze the seventh day-away! away! to sea
Drifted the bark, with riven planks, over the waters free;
Their battle-flag, these rovers bold then hoisted top-mast high,
And to the swarthy foe sent back a fierce defying cry.

'One last broad side!' Ned Bolton cried-deep boom'd the cannon's roar, And echo's hollow growl return'd an answer from the shore.

The thundering gun, the broken song, the mad tumultuous cheer,
Ceas'd not, so long as ocean spared the shatter'd privateer:

I saw her-I-she shot by me, like lightning in the gale;
We strove to save, we tack'd, and fast we slacken'd all our sail :-
I knew the wave of Ned's right hand-farewell!-you strive in vain,
And he, or one of his ship's crew, ne'er entered port again!

THE TWO MISERS.

6

Two neighbouring gentlemen of equal fortune, and remarkable for their avarice, were distinguished in their parish by the names of Cribb and Starve-gut. Mr. Cribb often visited his neighbour, and was as often visited by him; but as they had both the same end in view, they never asked each other to eat or drink; and they went on together very amicably, till Cribb one day was present at his friend's, when a man came to pay the interest of a thousand pounds, which raised Cribb's envy so much, that he left the room and went home; but return'd in the evening to Mr. Starve-gut, in order to learn some of his saving maxims. When Cribb came in, he found him writing a letter by a farthing candle; he was no sooner sat down, but Mr. Starve-gut put it out. 'How now!' says Cribb, what's that for? To which Starve gut replied, 'Cannot we two talk as well in the dark!' Faith, neighbour,' says Cribb, you are an excellent economist; I wish you would teach me some of your rules?' Why, friend,' says Starve-gut, one of my chief maxims is, never to spend more than is necessary: witness the candleRight!' quoth Cribb. I remember,' says Starvegut, 'the saying of an old philosopher, which ought to be wrote in letters of gold-namely, that whatever is unnecessary is too dear at a farthing.' Right,' quoth Cribb, thank you, neighbour-egad, I'll set this down. Now we are talking of sav ing,' says Starve-gut, let me ask you one question, for you must know there is a great difference between being covetous and being saving; for my part, there's nothing I hate more than a stingy man; but to my question- Pray, friend Cribb, do you shave yourself?' Quoth Cribb, what, do you take me for a fool? Well,' says Starve-gut, do not be in a passion; I did but ask. But what do you do with your lather?' Why, fling it away,' says Cribb, what do you think? Why, there it is now,' says Starve-gut, 'that is enough to ruin a man; why I always wash half a dozen handkerchiefs and a night-cap in mine, and then save it to wash my stockings !'

6

6

6

THE COUNTRYMAN AND RAZOR-SELLER.

A FELLOW in a market town,

Most musical, cried razors up and down,

And offer'd twelve for eighteen pence:

Which certainly seem'd wondrous cheap,
And for the money quite a heap,

As ev'ry man would buy with cash and sense.

A country bumpkin the great offer heard-
Poor Hodge, who suffer'd by a thick black beard,
That seem'd a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose.
With cheerfulness the eighteen pence he paid,
And proudly to himself in whispers said,

This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.

No matter if the fellow be a knave:

Provided that the razors shave,

It sartainly will be a monstrous prize.'

So home the clown with his good fortune went,
Smiling in heart and soul content,

And quickly soap'd himself to ears and eyes.

Being well lather'd from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub
Just like a hedger cutting furze:
'Twas a vile razor !-then the rest he tried-
All were impostors! 'Ah!' Hodge sigh'd,

'I wish my eighteen pence within my purse.'

In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces,
He cut, and dug, and winc'd and swore;

Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed, and made wry faces,
And curs'd each razor's body o'er and o'er.

His muzzle form'd of opposition stuff,
Firm as a Foxite, would not lose his ruff;

So kept it laughing at the steel and suds.
Hodge, in a passion, stretch'd his angry jaws,
Vowing the direst vengeance, with clench'd claws,
On the vile cheat that sold the goods.
Razors! a damn'd confounded dog,
Not fit to scrape a hog!'

Hodge sought the fellow, found him, and begun,
'Perhaps Master razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun,

That people slave themselves out o' their lives :-
You rascal! for an hour I have been grubbing,
Giving my scoundrel whiskers, here, a scrubbing,
With razors just like oyster-knives!
Sirrah! I tell you you're a knave,
To cry up razors that can't shave!'