"Boh!" quoth the German, "an't I 'pon de wheel? D'ye tink my nerfs and bons can't feel ?"

"Sir," quoth the beau, "don't, don't be in a passion;
I've naught to say about your situation;
But making such a hideous noise in France,
Fellow, is contrary to bienseance."

KINGS AND COURTIERS.

How pleasant 'tis the courtier clan to see!

So prompt to drop to majesty the knee;
To start, to run, to leap, to fly,
And gambol in the royal eye;

And, if expectant of some high employ,

PETER PINDAR

How kicks the heart against the ribs, for joy!

How rich the incense to the royal nose!

How liquidly the oil of flattery flows!

But should the monarch turn from sweet to sour,
Which cometh oft to pass in half an hour,

How altered instantly the courtier clan!

How faint how pale! how woe-begone, and wan!

Thus Corydon, betrothed to Delia's charms,
In fancy holds her ever in his arms:

In maddening fancy, cheeks, eyes, lips devours;
Plays with the ringlets that all flaxen flow

In rich luxuriance o'er a breast of snow,
And on that breast the soul of rapture pours.

Night, too, entrances-slumber brings the dream-
Gives to his lips his idol's sweetest kiss;

Bids the wild heart, high panting, swell its stream,
And deluge every nerve with bliss:

But if his nymph unfortunately frowns,

Sad, chapfallen, lo! he hangs himself or drowns!

Oh, try with bliss his moments to beguile:

Strive not to make your sovereign frown-but smile:

Sublime are royal nods-most precious things!-
Then, to be whistled to by kings!

To have him lean familiar on one's shoulder,
Becoming thus the royal arm upholder,

A heart of very stone must grow quite glad.
Oh! would some king so far himself demean,
As on my shoulder but for once to lean,

The excess of joy would nearly make me mad!
How on the honored garment I should dote,
And think a glory blazed around the coat!

Blessed, I should make this coat my coat of arms,
In fancy glittering with a thousand charms;

And show my children's children o'er and o'er;
"Here, babies," I should say, "with awe behold
This coat-worth fifty times its weight in gold:
This very, very coat your grandsire wore!

"Here"-pointing to the shoulder-I should say, "Here majesty's own hand so sacred lay”—

Then p'rhaps repeat some speech the king might utter; As-"Peter, how go sheep a score? what? what? What's cheapest meat to make a bullock fat?

Hæ ? he? what, what's the price of country butter ?"

Then should I, strutting, give myself an air,

And deem myself adorned with immortality:
Then should I make the children, calf-like stare,
And fancy grandfather a man of quality:
And yet, not stopping here, with cheerful note,
The muse should sing an ode upon the cont.

Poor lost America, high honors missing,

Knows naught of smile, and nod, and sweet hand-kissing,

Knows naught of golden promises of kings;

Knows naught of coronets, and stars, and strings;
In solitude the lovely rebel sighs!

But vainly drops the penitential tear—

Deaf as the adder to the woman's cries,
We suffer not her wail to wound our ear:

For food we bid ner hopeless children prowl,
And with the savage of the desert howl.

PRAYING FOR RAIN.

PETER PINDAR

How difficult, alas! to please mankind!
One or the other every moment mutters:
This wants an eastern, that a western wind:
A third, petition for a southern, utters.
Some pray for rain, and some for frost and snow:
How can Heaven suit all palates?—I don't know.

Good Lamb, the curate, much approved,
Indeed by all his flock beloved,

Was one dry summer begged to pray for rain.
The parson most devoutly prayed—

The powers of prayer were soon displayed;
Immediately a torrent drenched the plain.

It chanced that the church warden, Robin Jay,
Had of his meadow not yet saved the hay:

Thus was his hay to health quite past restoring.
It happened too that Robin was from home;
But when he heard the story, in a foam

He sought the parson, like a lion roaring.

"Zounds! Parson Lamb, why, what have you been doing!
A pretty storm, indeed, ye have been brewing!
What! pray for rain before I saved my hay!
Oh! you're a cruel and ungrateful man!

I that forever help you all I can ;

Ask you to dine with me and Mistress Jay,
Whenever we have something on the spit,
Or in the pot a nice and dainty bit;

"Send you a goose, a pair of chicken,
Whose bones you are so fond of picking;
And often too a cag of brandy!

You that were welcome to a treat,
To smoke and chat, and drink and eat;
Making my house so very handy!

"You, parson, serve one such a scurvy trick! Zounds! you must have the bowels of Old Nick.

What! bring the flood of Noah from the skies,
With my fine field of hay before your eyes!
A numskull, that I wer'n't of this aware.—
Curse me but I had stopped your pretty prayer!"
"Dear Mister Jay?" quoth Lamb, "alas! alas!
I never thought upon your field of grass."

"Lord! parson, you're a fool, one might suppose―
Was not the field just underneath your nose?
This is a very pretty losing job!”—

"Sir," quoth the curate, "know that Harry Cobb

Your brother warden joined, to have the prayer.""Cobb! Cobb! why this for Cobb was only sport: What doth Cobb ow that any rain can hurt?" Roared furious Jay as broad as he could stare.

"The fellow owns, as far as I can larn,

A few old houses only, and a barn;

As that's the case, zounds! what are showers to him? Not Noah's flood could make his trumpery swim.

"Besides-why could you not for drizzle pray?
Why force it down in buckets on the hay?
Would I have played with your hay such a freak?
No! I'd have stopped the weather for a week."

"Dear Mister Jay, I do protest,

I acted solely for the best;

I do affirm it, Mister Jay, indeed.

Your anger for this once restrain,

I'll never bring a drop again

Till you and all the parish are agreed."

APOLOGY FOR KINGS,

PETER PINDAR

As want of candor really is not right,
I own my satire too inclined to bite:
On kings behold it breakfast, dine, and sup-
Now shall she praise, and try to make it up.

Why will the simple world expect wise things,
From lofty folk, particularly kings?

Look on their poverty of education!

Adored and flattered, taught that they are gods,
And by their awful frowns and nods,

Jove-like, to shake the pillars of creation!

They scorn that little useful imp called mind,
Who fits them for the circle of mankind!
Pride their companion, and the world their hate;
Immured, they doze in ignorance and state.

Sometimes, indeed, great kings will condescend
A little with their subjects to unbend!

An instance take:-A king of this great land,
In days of yore, we understand,

Did visit Salisbury's old church so fair:

An Earl of Pembroke was the Monarch's guide;
Incog. they traveled, shuffling side by side;

And into the cathedral stole the pair.

The verger met them in his blue silk gown,
And humbly bowed his neck with reverence down,
Low as an ass to lick a lock of hay:

Looking the frightened verger through and through,
And with his eye-glass-"Well, sir, who are you?
What, what, sir?-hey, sir ?" deigned the king to say.

"I am the verger here, most mighty king:
In this cathedral I do every thing;

Sweep it, an't please ye, sir, and keep it clean."

"Hey? verger! verger!-you the verger?-hey?

"Yes, please your glorious majesty, I be,"

The verger answered, with the mildest mien.

Then turned the king about toward the peer,

And winked, and laughed, then whispered in his ear,
་ Hey, hey-what, what-fine fellow, 'pon my word:
I'll knight him, knight him, knight him-hey, my lord ?"

[It is a satire-royal: and if any thing were yet wanting to convince us that Master Pindar is no turncoat, here is proof suffi cient.]