Sudorifics in bed," exclaimed Will, "are humbugs! "I've enough of them there, without paying for drugs!"

Will kicked out the Doctor:-but when ill indeed,
E'en dismissing the Doctor don't always succeed;
So, calling his host-he said-Sir, do you know,
I'm the fat Single Gentleman, six months ago?

"Look ye, landlord, I think," argued Will with a grin, That with honest intentions you first took me in:

"But from the first night-and to say it I'm bold— I've been so very hot, that I'm sure I caught cold!"

Quoth the landlord,-"Till now, I ne'er had a dispute;
"I've let lodgings ten years,—I'm a baker to boot;
In airing your sheets, sir, my wife is no sloven;
And your bed is immediately-over my oven.'

66

The oven!!!" says Will;-says the host, "Why this passion?

In that excellent bed died three people of fashion.

Why so crusty, good sir?"-"Zounds!" cried Will in a

taking.

Who wouldn't be crusty, with half a year's baking?"

Will paid for his rooms-cried the host, with a sneer, "Well, I see you've been going away half a year."

66

66

Friend, we can't well agree;-yet no quarrel" Will said: But I'd rather not perish, while you make your

LOGIC; OR, THE BITER BIT.

bread."

COLMAN.

AN Eton stripling, training for the law,
A dunce at syntax, but a dab at taw,
One happy Christmas, laid upon the shelf
His cap and gown, and stores of learnèd pelf,
With all the deathless bards of Greece and Rome,
To spend a fortnight at his uncle's home.
Arrived, and passed the usual "How-d'ye-do's,"
Inquiries of old friends, and college news:

"Well, Tom-the road,-what saw you worth discerning?"And how goes study?-What is 't you 're learning?" "Oh! logic, sir; but not the shallow rules

"Of Locke and Bacon, antiquated fools!

"

'Tis wit, and wrangler's logic; thus, d'ye see

'I'll prove at once as plain as A, B, C,

"That an eel pie 's a pigeon: To deny it,

'Would be to say black 's white!"-"Come, Tom, let 's try it.".

"An eel-pie is a pie of fish!" "Agreed."

"Fish-pie may be a Jack-pie!" "Well, proceed." "A Jack-pie is a John-pie: and 'tis done;

66

'For every John-pie must be a pie-John! (pigeon.)"
Bravo!" Sir Peter cries, "Logic for ever!

"That beats my grandmother, and she was clever!
"But hold, my boy it surely would be hard,
"That wit and learning should have no reward;
To-morrow, for a stroll, the park we 'll cross,

"And there I'll give thee "-"What?" "A chesnut horse!"
"A horse!" cries Tom, "Bravo! Since that the case is,
"Oh! what a dash I'll cut at Epsom races!"

To bed he went, and wept for downright sorrow,
That night must go before he'd see the morrow;
Dreamt of his boots, and spurs, and leather breeches,
Hunting of cats, and leaping rails and ditches,
Left his warm rest an hour before the lark,
Dragged his old uncle, fasting, to the park.
Halter in hand, each vale he scoured; at loss
To spy a something like a chesnut horse;
But no such animal the meadows cropped.
At length, beneath a tree Sir Peter stopped,
A branch he caught, then shook it, and down fell

A fine horse-chesnut, in its prickly shell.

แ

'There, Tom, take that.' "Well, sir, and what beside?" Why, since you 're booted, saddle it and ride.

"Ride what?—A chesnut?" "Aye, come get across;

"I tell you, Tom, that chesnut is a horse,

'And all the horse you'll get; for I can shew,

"As clear as sunshine, that 'tis really so;

"Not by the musty fusty worn-out rules

"Of Locke and Bacon,-addle-headed fools!

Nor by old Aristotle's guide to knowledge,
But by the laws of wit and Eton-college;
All axioms but the wranglers' I'll disown,
And stick to one sound argument-your own:
Thus then you proved, your proof I don't deny,
That a pie-John's the same as a John-pie;
What follows thence? but, as a thing of course,
That a horse-chesnut is a chesnut-horse."

ANON.

MR. BARNEY MAGUIRE'S

ACCOUNT OF THE CORONATION OF QUEEN VIctoria. Extracted by permission of R. Bentley, Esq., from the "Ingoldsby Legends."

ОCH the coronation! what celebration
For emulation can with it compare?
When to Westminster the royal spinster,
And the Duke of Leinster, all in order did repair!
'Twas there you'd see the new polishmen
Making a scrimmage at half after four;

And the lords and ladies, and the Miss O'Grady's,
All standing round before the Abbey door;
Their pillows scorning, that self same morning,
Themselves adorning all by candle light,
With roses and lilies, and daffy down dillies
And gould and jewels, and rich diamonds bright.
And then approaches five hundred coaches
With Giniral Dullbreak ;-Och 'twas mighty fine

To see how asy bould Corporal Casey,

With his sword drawn, prancing, made them kape the line, "Twould have made you crazy to see Esterhazy

All jools from his jasey to his diamond boots,

With Alderman Harmer and that swate charmer,

The famale heiress, Miss Anjaly Coutts.

And Wellington walking, with his sword drawn, talking
To Hill and Hardinge, heroes of great fame;
And Sir de Lacy, and the Duke Dalmasey,—

They called him Soult before he changed his name,
Themselves presading, Lord Melbourne lading

The Queen, the darling, to her royal chair,
And that fine old fellow, the Duke of Pelmello,
The Queen of Portugal's chargy-de-fair.
Then the noble Prussians, likewise the Russians
In fine laced jackets with their golden cuffs,
And the Bavarians and the proud Hungarians,
And everythingarians all in furs and muffs.

Then Misthur Spaker, with Misthur Pays, the Quaker,
All in the gallery you might persave;

But Lord Brougham was missing, and gone a fishing,
Only cross Lord Essex would'nt give him lave.

There was Baron Alten himself exalting,

And Prince Von Swartzenburg, and many more;
Och! I'd be bothered and entirely smothered

To tell the half of them was to the fore!

With the swate peeresses, in their crowns and dresses,
And Aldermanesses, and the Board of Works.

But Mehemet Ali said, quite gentaly,

I'd be proud to see the likes among the Turks ;" Then the Queen, heaven bless her! Och they did dress her In her purple garments and her golden crown, Like Venus or Hebe, or the Queen of Sheby, With eight young ladies holding up her gown. Then the Archbishop held a golden dish up, For to resave her bounty and great wealth, Saying, "Plase your glory, great Queen Vict-ory, You'll give the clergy lave to drink your health.* Then his Reverence, retrating, discoursed the mating, Boys, here's your Queen! deny it if you can!

"And if any bould traitor, or infarior crathur,

Sneezes at that, I'd like to see the man."

Then the nobles kneeling, to the powers appealing,
"Heaven send your Majesty a glorious reign!"
And Sir Claudius Hunter he did confront her
All in his scarlet gown and goulden chain.

Then there was preaching, and good store of speaching,
With Dukes and Marquises on bended knee;

And they did splash her with raal maccasher,

And the Queen said, "Oh! then thank ye all for me." Then the crames and custards, and the beef and mustard, All on the tombstones like a poulterer's shop;

With lobsters and white bait, and other swate-meats,

And wine and nagus, and imperial pop;

There was cakes and apples in all the chapels ;

With fine polonies and rich mellow pears.

Och, the Count Von Shogonoff, sure he got prog enough,
That sly old cratur underneath the stairs.

Then the cannons thunder'd, and the people wonder'd,
Crying "God save Victoria our Royal Queen !"

Och! if myself should live to be a hundred,
Sure it's the proudest day that I've seen;
And now I've ended what I pretended,
This narration splendid in swate poetry.
Ye dear bewitcher, just hand the pitcher,
Faith, it's myself that 's getting mighty dry!

BARHAM,

MRS. DOBBS AT HOME.

(From "Gaieties and Gravities.")

WHAT! shall the Morning Post proclaim
For every rich or high-born dame,
From Portman Square to Cleveland Row,
Each item-no one cares to know;
Print her minutest whereabouts,
Describe her concerts, balls, or routs,
Enumerate the lamps and lustres,
Shew where the roses hung in clusters,
Tell how the floor was chalked, reveal
The partners in the first quadrille,

How long they danced, till, sharp as hunters,

They sat down to the feast from Gunter's;
How much a quart was paid for peas,
How much for pines and strawberries,
Taking especial care to fix

The hour of parting, half-past six ?
And shall no bard make proclamation
Of routs enjoyed in humble station?
Rise, honest Muse, to Hackney roam,
And sing of Mrs. Dobbs at home.