From morn till noon, from noon till dewy eve,
Our Frenchmen wandered on their expedition;
Great was their need, and sorely did they grieve,
Stomach and pocket in the same condition!
At length by mutual consent they parted,
And different ways on the same errand started.
This happened on a day most dear

To epicures, when general use

Sanctions the roasting of the sav'ry goose.
Towards night, one Frenchman, at a tavern near,
Stopped, and beheld the glorious cheer;
While greedily he snuffed the luscious gale in,
That from the kitchen window was exhaling.

He instant set to work his busy brain,

And snuffed and longed, and longed and snuffed again. Necessity's the mother of invention,

(A proverb I've heard many mention);

So now one moment saw his plan completed,
And our sly Frenchman at a table seated.

The ready waiter at his elbow stands—

Sir, will you favour me with your commands? We've roast and boiled, sir; choose you

those or these?' 'Sare! you are very good, sare! Vat you please.'

Quick at the word,

Upon the table smokes the wished-for bird.
No time in talking did he waste,

But pounced pell-mell upon it;

Drum-stick and merry-thought he picked in haste,
Exulting in the merry thought that won it.
Pie follows goose, and after pie comes cheese-
'Stilton or Cheshire, sir ?'-'Ah! Vat you please.'

And now our Frenchman, having ta'en his fill,
Prepares to go, when-'Sir, your little bill.'

Ah, vat you're Bill! Vell, Mr. Bill, good day!
Bon jour, good Villiam.'- No, sir, stay!

My name is Tom, sir—you've this bill to pay.'
Pay, pay, ma foi!

I call for noting, sare-pardonnez-moi!

You bring me vat you call your goose, your cheese,
You ask-a-me to eat; I tell you, Vat you please!'
Down came the master, each explained the case,
The one with cursing, t'other with grimace;
But Boniface, who dearly loved a jest,
(Although sometimes he dearly paid for it),
And finding nothing could be done, (you know,

That when a man has got no money,

To make him pay some would be rather funny),
Of a bad bargain made the best,

Acknowledged much was to be said for it;
Took pity on the Frenchman's meagre face,
And, Briton-like, forgave a fallen foe,
Laughed heartily, and let him go.

Our Frenchman's hunger, thus subdued,
Away he trotted in a merry mood;

When, turning round the corner of a street,
Who but his countryman he chanced to meet !
To him, with many a shrug and many a grin,
He told him how he'd taken Jean Bull in!
Fired with the tale, the other licks his chops,
Makes his congée, and seeks this shop of shops.
Entering, he seats himself, just at his ease,
'What will you take, sir? Vat you please.'
The waiter turned as pale as Paris plaster,
And, upstairs running, thus addressed his master:
These vile mounseers come over sure in pairs;
Sir, there's another "vat you please!" downstairs.'
This made the landlord rather crusty,

Too much of one thing-the proverb's somewhat musty.
Once to be done, his anger didn't touch,

But when a second time they tried the treason,
It made him crusty, sir, and with good reason,
You would be crusty were you done so much.

There is a kind of instrument

Which greatly helps a serious argument,
And which, when properly applied, occasions
Some most unpleasant tickling sensations!

'Twould make more clumsy folks than Frenchmen skip,

"Twill strike you presently-a stout horsewhip.

This instrument our Maître l'Hôte

Most carefully concealed beneath his coat;

And seeking instantly the Frenchman's station,
Addressed him with the usual salutation.

Our Frenchman, bowing to his threadbare knees,
Determined whilst the iron's hot to strike it,
Pat with his lesson answers-Vat you please!'
But scarcely had he let the sentence slip,

Than round his shoulders twines the pliant whip!

Sare, sare! ah, miséricorde, parbleu !

Oh dear, monsieur, vat make you use me so?

Vat you call dis !' ́ ́Oh, don't you know?

That's what I please,' says Bonny, 'how d'ye like it?
Your friend, though I paid dearly for his funning,
Deserved the goose he gained, sir, for his cunning;
But you, monsieur, or else my time I'm wasting,
Are goose enough, and only wanted basting.'

Planch

Centric in London noise and London folly,
Proud Covent Garden blooms in smoky glory;
For cabmen, coffee-rooms, piazzas, holly,
Cabbages and comedians famed in story.
Near this famed spot, upon a sober plan,
Dwelt a right regular and staid young man ;-
Much did he early hours and quiet love,
And was entitled Mr. Isaac Dove.

He had apartments up two pair of stairs;
And on the first floor lodged one Dr. Crow ;
The landlord was a torturer of hairs,

And made a grand display of wigs below,
From the beau's brutus to the parson's frizzle ;-
Over the doorway was his name ;-'twas Twizzle.
Now Isaac Dove,
Living above

This Doctor Crow,

And knowing Barber Twizzle lived below,-
Thought it might be as well,

Hearing so many knocks-single and double

To try at his own cost a street-door bell, And save confusion in the house and trouble. Whereby his (Isaac's) visitors might know,

Without long waiting in the dirt or drizzle, To ring for him at once,

And not to knock for Crow or Twizzle.

Besides, he now began to feel

The want of it was rather ungenteel ;-
For he had often thought it a disgrace

To hear, while sitting in his own room above,
Twizzle's shrill maid on the first landing-place
Screaming, 'A man below wants Mr. Dove!'
The bell was bought; the wire was made to steal
Round the dark staircase like a tortured eel,
Twisting and twining ;-

The knobby handle Twizzle's door-post graced ;-
And just beneath a brazen plate was placed,
Lacquered and shining,

Graven whereon, in characters full clear,
And legible, did Mr. Dove' appear ;-

And, furthermore, which you might read right well,
Was, 'Please to ring the bell.'

Alas! what pity 'tis that regularity
Like Isaac Dove's is such a rarity;

But there are swilling wights in London town
Termed Jolly Dogs-Choice Spirits-alias Swine ;
Who pour, in midnight revel, bumpers down,
Making their throats a thoroughfare for wine.
These spendthrifts, who life's pleasures thus outrun,
Dozing with headaches till the afternoon,
Lose half men's regular estate of sun,

By borrowing too largely of the moon.
One of this kidney-Toby Tosspot hight-
Was coming from the Bedford late at night;
And being Bacchi plenus,-full of wine,
Although he had a tolerable notion,
Of aiming at progressive motion,
'Twasn't direct 'twas serpentine.

He worked with sinuosities along,

Like Monsieur Corkscrew, worming through a cork ;
Not straight, like Corkscrew's proxy-stiff Don
Prong, a fork.

At length, with near four bottles in his pate,
He saw the moon shining on Dove's brass plate,
When reading, Please to ring the bell;'
And being civil beyond measure,

'Ring it!' says Toby-' very well;
I'll ring it with a deal of pleasure.'

Toby, the kindest soul in all the town,
Gave it a jerk, that almost jerked it down.
He waited full two minutes-no one came ;

He waited full two minutes more; and then
Says Toby, 'If he's deaf, I'm not to blame!
I'll pull it for the gentleman again.'

But the first peal woke Isaac in a fright;
Who, quick as lightning popping up his head,
Sat on his head's antipodes, in bed,

Pale as a parsnip, bolt upright.

At length he wisely to himself doth say--
Calming his fears—

Tush! 'tis some fool has rung, and run away;'
When peal the second rattled in his ears!

Dove jumped into the middle of the floor;

And, trembling at each breath of air that stirred, He groped downstairs, and opened the street door; While Toby was performing peal the third.

Isaac eyed Toby, fearfully askant

And saw he was a strapper-stout and tall;
He put his question-- Pray, Sir, what d'ye want?'
Says Toby-'I want nothing, Sir, at all.'

'Want nothing? Sir! you've pulled my bell, I vow,
As if you'd jerk it off the wire!'

Quoth Toby-gravely making him a bow-

I pulled it, Sir, at your desire.'

́ At mine ? '—' Yes, yours!—I hope I've done it well!
High time for bed, Sir; I was hastening to it;
But if you write up-" Please to ring the bell,"
Common politeness makes me stop and do it.'

Ex. 225.

Rabelais and the Lampreys.

Colman.

When the eccentric Rabelais was physician
To Cardinal Lorraine, he sat at dinner
Beside that gormandizing sinner;

Not like the medical magician

Who whisked from Sancho Panza's fauces
The evanescent meat and sauces,

But to protect his sacred master
Against such diet as obstructs
The action of the epigastre,
O'erloads the biliary ducts,
The peristaltic motion crosses,
And puzzles the digestive process.

The Cardinal, one hungry day,

First having with his eyes consumed
Some lampreys that before him fumed,

Had plunged his fork into the prey,
When Rabelais gravely shook his head,
Tapped on his plate three times and said-

Pah!-hard digestion! hard digestion !'

And his bile-dreading eminence,