VIII.

Down the river did glide, with wind and with tide,

A pig with vast celerity ; And the Devil look'd wise as he saw how the while, Itcut its own throat. “There!" quoth he with a smile,

“ Goes England's commercial prosperity.”

IX.

As he went through Cold-Bath Fields he saw

A solitary cell ; And the Devil was pleased, for it gave him a hint

For improving his prisons in Hell.

X.

He saw a Turnkey in a trice

Unfetter a troublesome blade;
Nimbly” quoth he,“ do the fingers move
If a man be but used to his trade.”

suggestion, which I owe to a young retailer in the hosiery line, who on hearing a description of the net profits, dinner parties, country houses, &c. of the trade, exclaimed, " Ay! that's what I call Life now!”—This “ Life, our Death,” is thus happily contrasted with the fruits of authorship.—Sic nos non nobis mellificamus apes.

Of this poem, which with the Fire, Famine, and Slaughter, first appeared in the Morning Post, the 1st, 2d, 3d, 9th, and 16th stanzas were dictated by Mr. Southey. See Apulogetic Preface, vol. i. If any one should ask who General

meant, the Author begs leave to inform him, that he did once see a red-faced person in a dream whom by the dress he took for a General; but he might have been mistaken, and most certainly he did not hear any names mentioned. In simple verity, the author never meant any one, or indeed any thing but to put a concluding stanza to his doggerel.

XI.

He saw the same Turnkey unfetter a man

With but little expedition, Which put him in mind of the long debate

On the Slave-trade abolition.

XII.

He saw an old acquaintance

As he pass'd by a Methodist meeting ;She holds a consecrated key,

And the Devil nods her a greeting.

XIII.

She turned up her nose, and said,

“ Avaunt ! my name's Religion," And she looked to Mr.

And leered like a love-sick pigeon.

The Devil quoted Genesis,

Like a very learned clerk,
How “Noah and his creeping things
Went

up

into the Ark.”

XVI.

He took from the poor,

And he gave to the rich,

And he shook hands with a Scotchman,

For he was not afraid of the

*

XVII.
General

burning face
He saw with consternation,
And back to hell his way did he take,
For the Devil thought by a slight mistake

It was general conflagration.

THE TWO ROUND SPACES ON THE

TOMB-STONE.

See the apology for the “ Fire, Famine, and Slaughter,' in first volume. This is the first time the author ever published these lines. He would have been glad, had they perished; but they have now been printed repeatedly in magazines, and he is told that the verses will not perish. Here, therefore, they are owned, with a hope that they will be taken-as assuredly they were composed-in mere sport.

The Devil believes that the Lord will come,
Stealing a march without beat of drum,
About the same time that he came last,

On an old Christmas-day in a snowy blast : Till he bids the trump sound, neither body nor soul stirs,

[bolsters. For the dead men's heads have slipt under their

Oh! ho! brother Bard, in our church-yard,

Both beds and bolsters are soft and green;
Save one alone, and that's of stone,

And under it lies a Counsellor keen. 'Twould be a square tomb, if it were not too long, And 'tis fenced round with irons sharp, spearlike,

and strong

This fellow from Aberdeen hither did skip,
With a waxy face, and a blubber lip,
And a black tooth in front, to show in part
What was the colour of his whole heart.

This Counsellor sweet,

This Scotchman complete, (The Devil scotch him for a snake) I trust he lies in his grave awake.

On the sixth of January,
When all around is white with snow,
As a Cheshire yeoman's dairy;

Brother Bard, ho! ho !

Believe it, or no,
On that stone tomb to you I'll show

Two round spaces void of snow.
I swear by our Knight, and his forefathers' souls,
That in size and shape they are just like the holes

In the house of privity

Of that ancient family. On those two places void of snow, There have sate in the night for an hour or so, Before sunrise, and after cock-crow,

He kicking his heels, she cursing her corns,
All to the tune of the wind in their horns,

The Devil, and his Grannam,
With a snow-

w-blast to fan 'em;
Expecting and hoping the trumpet to blow,
For they are cock-sure of the fellow below.

LINES

TO A COMIC AUTHOR, ON AN ABUSIVE REVIEW.

[croak :

What though the chilly wide-mouth'd quacking

.chorus From the rank swamps of murk Review-land So was it, neighbour, in the times before us, When Momus, throwing on his Attic cloak, Romped with the Graces; and each tickled Muse (That Turk, Dan Phoebus, whom bards call divine, Was married to—at least, he kept—all nine) Fled, but still with reverted faces ran; Yet, somewhat the broad freedoms to excuse, They had allur’d the audacious Greek to use, Swore they mistook him for their own good man. This Momus-Aristophanes on earth Men called him-maugre all his wit and worth Was croaked and gabbled at. How, then, should

you, Or I, friend, hope to 'scape the skulking crew ? No! laugh, and say aloud, in tones of glee, “I hate the quacking tribe, and they hate me!"