Is this the way, you Wretch, every day you

I went and told the constable my property to track; He asked me if "I did not wish that I might get it back."

I answered, "To be sure I do! - it's what I'm come about."

He smiled and said, "Sir, does your mother know that you are out?"

Out all night! Me in a fright;

Staggering home as it's just getting light!
You intoxified brute!-
Look at the Clock !

you insensible block! Do! Look at the Clock!"

Winifred Pryce was tidy and clean,
Hergown was a flowered one, her petticoat green,
Her buckles were bright as her milking-cans,

back to town,

And beg our own Lord Mayor to catch the boy who'd done me brown."

66

His Lordship very kindly said he 'd try and find him out,

But he "rather thought that there were several vulgar boys about."

He sent for Mr. Whithair then, and I described "the swag,"

My Macintosh, my sugar-tongs, my spoons, and carpet-bag;

He promised that the New Police should all their powers employ,

But never to this hour have I beheld that vulgar Boy!

MORAL.

Remember, then, what when a boy I've heard

my Grandma tell,

"BE WARNED IN TIME BY OTHERS' HARM, AND YOU SHALL DO FULL WELL!"

Don't link yourself with vulgar folks, who've got no fixed abode,

Tell lies, use naughty words, and say they "wish they may be blowed!"

Her gown-tail was turned up, and tucked through the pocket-holes ;

That particular day, As I've heard people say, Mr. David Pryce had been soaking his clay,

The whole afternoon at the Goat-in-Boots,
With a couple more soakers,
Thoroughbred smokers,
Both, like himself, prime singers and jokers;
And, long after day had drawn to a close,
And the rest of the world was wrapped in repose,
They were roaring out "Shenkin!" and "Ar
hydd y nos";

While David himself, to a Sassenach tune,
Sang, "We've drunk down the Sun, boys!
let's drink down the Moon !
What have we with day to do?
Mrs. Winifred Pryce, 't was made
for you!"

At length, when they could n't well drink any more, Old "Goat-in-Boots" showed them the door; And then came that knock,

And the sensible shock

Clock!"

For the hands stood as crooked as crooked might be,
The long at the Twelve, and the short at the Three!
That self-same clock had long been a bone
Of contention between this Darby and Joan;
And often, among their pother and rout,
When this otherwise amiable couple fell out,
Pryce would drop a cool hint
With an ominous squint

At its case, of an "Uncle" of his, who'd a "Spout."

That horrid word " Spout"

No sooner came out,

Than Winifred Pryce would turn her about,

And with scorn on her lip,

And a hand on each hip,

all

The rest, he assured them, was "quite accidental!"

The jury, in fine, having sat on the body
The whole day, discussing the case and gin toddy,
Returned about half past eleven at night
The following verdict, "We find, Sarve her right!”
Mr. David has since had a "serious call,"
He never drinks ale, wine, or spirits, at all,
And they say he is going to Exeter Hall
To make a grand speech,

And to preach and to teach

People that "they can't brew their malt liquor

too small!"

That an ancient Welsh Poet, one PYNDAR AP TUDOR,

"You thundering Willin,

I know you'd be killing

Your wife -ay, a dozen of wives - for a shilling!

You may do what you please,
You may sell my chemise,

(Mrs. P. was too well bred to mention her stock,) But I never will part with my Grandmother's

Clock !"

Mrs. Pryce's tongue ran long and ran fast; But patience is apt to wear out at last,

And David Pryce in temper was quick,

Which means "The pure Element
Is for Man's belly meant !"

And that Gin's but a Snare of Old Nick the de

luder !

And "still on each evening when pleasure fills At the old Goat-in-Boots, with Metheglin, each up,"

cup,

Mr. Pryce, if he's there,
Will get into "The Chair,"

And make all his quondam associates stare

sense,"

The unlucky lick

From the end of his stick

quick";

But, really, her prating

Was so aggravating:

And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee.

Never, I ween,

Was a prouder seen,

Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams,

And nobody seems to know what they 're about,

In and out

Through the motley rout,

That little Jackdaw kept hopping about:

Here and there,

Like a dog in a fair,

Over comfits and cates,
And dishes and plates,

Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall!
Mitre and crosier! he hopped upon all.
With a saucy air,

He perched on the chair

Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat,
In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat;
And he peered in the face

Of his Lordship's Grace,

With a satisfied look, as if he would say, "We Two are the greatest folks here to-day!" And the priests, with awe,

As such freaks they saw,

Said, "The Devil must be in that little Jackdaw!”

["The Vicar of Bray in Berkshire, England, was Simon Alleyn, or Allen, and held his place from 1540 to 1588. He was a Papist under the reign of Henry the Eighth, and a Protestant under Edward the Sixth. He was a Papist again under Mary, and once more became a Protestant in the reign of Elizabeth. When this scandal to the gown was reproached for his versatility of religious creeds, and taxed for being a turn-coat and an inconstant changeling, as Fuller expresses it, he replied: "Not so, neither; for if I changed my religion, I am sure I kept true to my principle, which is to live and die the Vicar of Bray." D'ISRAELI.

The idea seems to have been adapted to some changelings of a later date. In a note in Nichols's "Select Poems," 1782, Vol. VIIL p. 234, it is stated that "the song of the Vicar of Bray" is said to have been written by an officer in Colonel Fuller's regiment, in

snore,

That good Jackdaw

Would give a great "Caw!"

As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!" While many remarked, as his manners they saw, That they never had known such a pious Jackdaw !"

He long lived the pride

Of that country side,

And at last in the odor of sanctity died; When, as words were too faint

His merits to paint,

The Conclave determined to make him a Saint. And on newly made Saints and Popes, as you know, It's the custom at Rome new names to bestow, So they canonized him by the name of Jem Crow !

RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM. (THOMAS INGOLDSBY, ESQ.)

fact; and though it reflects no great honor on the hero of the poem, is humorously expressive of the complexion of the times, in the suc cessive reigns from Charles the Second to George the First."]

IN good King Charles's golden days,
When loyalty no harm meant,
A zealous high-churchman was I,
And so I got preferment.
To teach my flock I never missed:
Kings were by God appointed,
And lost are those that dare resist
Or touch the Lord's anointed.

And this is law that I'll maintain
Until my dying day, sir,
That whatsoever king shall reign,

Still I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.

When royal James possessed the crown, And popery grew in fashion,

The penal laws I hooted down,

And read the declaration;

The Church of Rome I found would fit
Full well my constitution;

And I had been a Jesuit

But for the revolution.

And this is law that I'll maintain, etc.

When William was our king declared,
To ease the nation's grievance ;
With this new wind about I steered,

And swore to him allegiance;
Old principles I did revoke,

Set conscience at a distance;

Passive obedience was a joke,

A jest was non-resistance.

And this is law that I'll maintain, etc.

When royal Anne became our queen,
The Church of England's glory,

Another face of things was seen,
And I became a Tory;
Occasional conformists base,

I blamed their moderation;
And thought the church in danger was,
By such prevarication.

And this is law that I'll maintain, etc.

When George in pudding-time came o'er,
And moderate men looked big, sir,
My principles I changed once more,
And so became a Whig, sir;

And thus preferment I procured

From our new faith's defender;

And almost every day abjured

The pope and the pretender.

And this is law that I'll maintain, etc.

The illustrious house of Hanover,

And Protestant succession,

To these I do allegiance swear-
While they can keep possession :
For in my faith and loyalty
I nevermore will falter,

And George my lawful king shall be-
Until the times do alter.

And this is law that I'll maintain, etc.

ANONYMOUS.

THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY.

A DOMESTIC LEGEND OF THE REIGN OF QUEEN ANNE. "Hail, wedded love! mysterious tie!"

Thomson or Somebody.

THE Lady Jane was tall and slim,
The Lady Jane was fair,

And Sir Thomas, her lord, was stout of limb,
And his cough was short, and his eyes were dim,