And the threepence he'd got by grottoing was spent in plums, and sixty for a child is too many.

And the Cholera man came and whitewash'd us all and, drat him, made a seize of our hog,-- It's no use to send the Crier to cry him about, he's such a blunderin drunken old dog; The last time he was fetched to find a lost child, he was guzzling with his bell at the Crown, And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a distracted Mother and Father about Town.

Billy--where are you, Billy, I say? come, Billy, come home, to your best of Mothers!

I'm scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they drive so, they'd run over their own Sisters and Brothers.

Or may be he's stole by some chimbly sweeping wretch, to stick fast in narrow flues and what not, And be poked up behind with a picked pointed pole, when the soot has ketch'd, and the chimbly's red hot.

Oh I'd give the whole wide world, if the world was mine, to clap my two longin eyes on his face, For he's my darlin of darlins, and if he don't soon come back, you'll see me drop stone dead on the place.

I only wish I'd got him safe in these two Motherly arms, and wouldn't I hug him and kiss him!

Lauk! I never knew what a precious he was-- but a child don't not feel like a child till you miss him.

Why, there he is! Punch and Judy hunting, the young wretch, it's that Billy as sartin as sin!

But let me get him home, with a good grip of his hair, and I'm blest if he shall have a whole bone in his skin!

THE FOX AND THE HEN.

A FABLE.

Speaking within _compass_, as to fabulousness I prefer _Southcote_ to _Northcote_.

PIGROGROMITUS.

One day, or night, no matter where or when, Sly Reynard, like a foot-pad, laid his pad Right on the body of a speckled Hen, Determined upon taking all she had; And like a very bibber at his bottle, Began to draw the claret from her throttle; Of course it put her in a pretty pucker, And with a scream as high As she could cry, She call'd for help--she had enough of sucker.

Dame Partlet's scream Waked, luckily, the house-dog from his dream, And, with a savage growl In answer to the fowl, He bounded forth against the prowling sinner, And, uninvited, came to the Fox Dinner.

Sly Reynard, heedful of the coming doom, Thought, self-deceived, He should not be perceived, Hiding his _brush_ within a neighboring _broom_!

But quite unconscious of a Poacher's snare, And caught in copper noose, And looking like a goose, Found that his fate had "hung upon a _hare_"; His tricks and turns were rendered of no use to him, And worst of all he saw old surly Tray Coming to play Tray-Deuce with him.

Tray, an old Mastiff bred at Dunstable, Under his Master, a most special constable, Instead of killing Reynard in a fury, Seized him for legal trial by a Jury; But Juries--aesop was a sheriff then-- Consisted of twelve Brutes and not of Men.

But first the Elephant sat on the body-- I mean the Hen--and proved that she was dead, To the veriest fool's head Of the Booby and the Noddy.

Accordingly, the Stork brought in a bill Quite true enough to kill, And then the Owl was call'd,--for, mark, The Owl can witness in the dark.

To make the evidence more plain, The Lynx connected all the chain.

In short there was no quirk or quibble At which a legal Rat could nibble; The Culprit was as far beyond hope's bounds.

As if the Jury had been _packed_--of hounds.

Reynard, however, at the utmost nick, Is seldom quite devoid of shift and trick; Accordingly our cunning Fox, Through certain influence, obscurely channel'd A friendly Camel got into the box, When 'gainst his life the Jury was impanel'd.

Now, in the Silly Isles such is the law, If Jurors should withdraw, They are to have no eating and no drinking, Till all are starved into one way of thinking.

Thus Reynard's Jurors, who could not agree, Were lock'd up strictly, without bit or mummock, Till every Beast that only had _one_ stomach, Bent to the Camel, who was blest with _three_.

To do them justice, they debated From four till ten, while dinner waited, When thirst and hunger got the upper, And each inclin'd to mercy, and hot supper: "Not Guilty" was the word, and Master Fox Was freed to murder other hens and cocks.

MORAL.

What moral greets us by this tale's assistance But that the Solon is a sorry Solon, Who makes the full stop of a Man's existence Depend upon a _Colon_?

THE POACHER.

A SERIOUS BALLAD.

But a bold pheasantry, their country's pride When once destroyed can never be supplied.

GOLDSMITH.

Bill Blossom was a nice young man, And drove the Bury coach; But bad companions were his bane, And egg'd him on to poach.

They taught him how to net the birds, And how to noose the hare; And with a wiry terrier, He often set a snare.

Each "shiny night" the moon was bright, To park, preserve, and wood He went, and kept the game alive, By killing all he could.

Land-owners, who had rabbits, swore That he had this demerit-- Give him an inch of warren, he Would take a yard of ferret.

At partridges he was not nice; And many, large and small, Without Hall's powder, without lead, Were sent to Leaden Hall.

He did not fear to take a deer From forest, park, or lawn; And without courting lord or duke, Used frequently to _fawn_.

Folks who had hares discovered snares-- His course they could not stop: No barber he, and yet he made Their hares a perfect crop.

To pheasant he was such a foe, He tried the keepers' nerves; They swore he never seem'd to have _Jam_ satis of _preserves_.

The Shooter went to beat, and found No sporting worth a pin, Unless he tried the _covers_ made Of silver, plate, or tin.

In Kent the game was little worth, In Surrey not a button; The Speaker said he often tried The _Manors_ about _Button_.

No county from his tricks was safe; In each he tried his lucks, And when the keepers were in _Beds_, He often was at _Bucks_.

And when he went to _Bucks_, alas!

They always came to _Herts_; And even _Oxon_ used to wish That he had his deserts.

But going to his usual _Hants_, Old _Cheshire_ laid his plots: He got entrapp'd by legal _Berks_, And lost his life in _Notts_.

A WATERLOO BALLAD.

To Waterloo, with sad ado, And many a sigh and groan, Amongst the dead, came Patty Head, To look for Peter Stone.

"O prithee tell, good sentinel, If I shall find him here?

I'm come to weep upon his corse, My Ninety-Second dear!

"Into our town a sergeant came, With ribands all so fine, A-flaunting in his cap--alas!

His bow enlisted mine!