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Studs tumble out, leave you in doubt,

Tear away, glare away; no! no!
Collars try six, quite in a fix,

Hustle-y, bustle-y; slow, slow;
Ties take an age, quite in a rage,

Chokery, jokery; throw, throw;
Tight boots you dread, face getting red;

Flushery, blushery; glow, glow;
Hurrying, scurrying; rathery, lathery; washery,

sloshery ; rubbery, scrubbery; stumble-y, grumble-y; smashery, crashery ; rumple-y, crumple-y; callery, bawlery; tear away, glare away; hustle-y, bustle-y; chokery, jokery; flushery, blushery,

The tale of a toilet, &c.

Head in a whirl, hair will not curl,

Toilery, oilery ; quick, quick;
Long does it take, parting to make,

Backery, knackery; stick, stick;
Moustache one toys, Pomade Hongroise,

Spikery, likery; twirl, twirl ;
Often the case, scratches the face,

Kissery, missery; girl, girl;
Charms and the rest, hooked in the vest,

Glittery, flittery; shine, shine;
Crush hat as well, makes up

the swell, Flashery, dashery ; fine, fine. Hurrying, scurrying; rathery, lathery; washery,

sloshery; rubbery scrubbery; stumble-y, grumble-y; smashery, crashery; rumple-y, crumple-y; callery, bawlery; tear away, glare away; hustle-y, bustle-y; chokery, jokery; flushery, blushery; toilery, oilery; backery, knackery; spikery, likery; kissery, missery; glittery, flittery; flashery, dashery,

The tale of a toilet, &c. (By kind permission of the Author.)


Dr. Wolcot.

ONCE on a time, a monarch, tired with whooping,

Whipping and spurring,

Happy in worrying A

poor defenceless, harmless buck-
The horse and rider wet as muck-
From his high consequence and wisdom stooping,

Entered through curiosity a cot,
Where sat a poor old woman and her pot.
The wrinkled, blear-eyed, good old granny,

In this same cot, illumed by many a cranny,
Had finished apple dumplings for her pot:

In tempting row the naked dumplings lay,

When lo ! the monarch in his usual way, Like lightning spoke, “What's this? what's this?

what, what ?"

Then taking up a dumpling in his hand,

with admiration did expand;
And oft did majesty the dumpling grapple.
He cried, “ 'Tis monstrous, monstrous hard, indeed i
What makes it, pray, so hard ?” The dame replied,

Low curtsying, “Please your majesty, the apple." “Very astonishing, indeed l strange thing !"Turning the dumpling round-rejoined the king.

“ 'Tis most extraordinary then, all this is—

It beats Pinette's conjuring all to pieces : Strange I should never of a dumpling dream! But, goody, tell me where, where, where's the seam ?" “ Sir, there's no seam,” quoth she; “I ne'er did know That folks did apple dumplings sew." “No!" cried the staring monarch, with a grin;

How, how the devil got the apple in ?"

On which the dame the curious scheme revealed
By which the apple lay so sly concealed,

Which made the Solomon of Britain start;
Who to the palace with full speed repaired,
And queen and princesses so beauteous scared

All with the wonders of the dumpling art. There did he labour one whole week to show

The wisdom of an apple-dumpling maker; And lo! so deep was majesty in dough,

The palace seemed the lodging of a baker!




Scheherazade immediately began the following story. ALI BEN Ali (did you never read

His wondrous acts that chronicles relate, How there was one in pity might exceed

The sack of Troy ?) magnificent he sate
Upon the throne of greatness—great indeed,

For those that he had under him were great-
The horse he rode on, shod with silver nails,
Was a Bashaw-Bashaws have horses' tails.
Ali was cruel-a most cruel one!

'Tis rumour'd he had strangled his own motherHowbeit such deeds of darkness he had done,

'Tis thought he would have slain his elder brother And sister too—but happily that none

Did live within harm's length of one another,
Else he had sent the Sun in all its blaze
To endless night, and shorten'd the Moon's days.
Despotic power, that mars a weak man's wit,

And makes a bad man absolutely bad,
Made Ali wicked-to a fault : 'tis fit
Monarchs should have some check-strings; but he


No curb upon his will—no, not a bit

Wherefore he did not reign well—and full glad His slaves had been to hang him—but they falter'd, And let him live unhang'd-and still unalter'd,

Until he got a sage bush of a beard,

Wherein an Attic owl might roost-a trail Of bristly hair—that, honour'd and unshear'd,

Grew downward like old women and cow's tail, Being a sign of age--some grey appear'd,

Mingling with duskier brown its warnings pale; But yet not so poetic as when Time Comes like Jack Frost, and whitens it in rime.

Ben Ali took the hint, and much did vex

His royal bosom that he had no son, No living child of the more noble sex,

To stand in his Morocco shoes—not one To make a negro-pollard—or tread necks When he was gone-doom'd, when his days were

done, To leave the very city of his fame Without an Ali to keep up his name.

Therefore he chose a lady for his love,

Singling from out the herd one stag-eyed dear; So call'd because her lustrous eyes, above

All eyes, were dark, and timorous, and clear ; Then through his Muftis piously he strove, And drumm’d with proxy-prayers Mohammed's

ear, Knowing a boy for certain must come of it, Or else he was not praying to his Profit.

Beer will grow mothery, and ladies fair

grow like beer; so did that stay-eyed dame ; Ben Ali hoping for a son and heir,

Boy'd up his hopes, and even chose a name

Of mighty hero that his child should bear;

He made so certain ere his chicken came;
But oh! all worldly wit is little worth,
Nor knoweth what to-morrow will bring forth.
To-morrow came, and with to-morrow's sun

A little daughter to this world of sins,-
Miss-fortunes never come alone—so one

Brought on another, like a pair of twins! Twins ! female twins !—it was enough to stun

Their little wits and scare them from their skins To hear their father stamp, and curse, and swear, Pulling his beard because he had no heir. Then strove their stag-eyed mother to calm down

This his paternal rage, and thus addrest : 0! Most Serene! why dost thou stamp and frown,

And box the compass of the royal chest ? Ah ! thou wilt mar that portly trunk, I own

I love to gaze on !-Prythee, thou hadst best Pocket thy fists. Nay, love, if you so thin Your beard, you'll want a wig upon your chin! But not her words, nor e'en her tears, could slack

The quicklime of his rage, that hotter grew : He call'd his slaves to bring an ample sack

Wherein a woman might be pokeda few Dark grimly men felt pity and look'd black

At this sad order; but their slaveships knew When


dared demur, his sword so bending Cut off the “head and front of their offending." For Ali had a sword, much like himself,

A crooked blade, guilty of human goreThe trophies it had lopp'd from many an elf

Were stuck at his head-quarters by the scorem Nor

peace he laid it on the shelf, But jested with it, and his wit cut sore; So that (as they of Public Houses speak) He often did his dozen butts a week.

yet in

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