"O'er all the land of Brentford

I'm lord and eke of Kew:

I've three per cents and five per cents,

My debts are but a few;

And to inherit after me

I have but children two.

"Prince Thomas is my eldest son,
A sober prince is he,

And from the day we breech'd him
Till now (he's twenty-three)

He never caused disquiet

To his

poor mamma or me.

"At school they never flogg'd him,
At college though not fast,
Yet his little-go, and great-go
He creditably pass'd,

And made his year's allowance
For eighteen months to last.

"He never owed a shilling,
Went never drunk to bed,
He has not two ideas

Within his honest headIn all respects he differs

From my second son, Prince Ned.

"When Tom has half his income
Laid by at the year's end,
Poor Ned has ne'er a stiver
That rightly he may spend,
But sponges on a tradesman,
Or borrows from a friend.

"While Tom his legal studies
Most soberly pursues,
Poor Ned must pass his mornings
A-dawdling with the Muse:
While Tom frequents his banker,
Young Ned frequents the Jews.

"Ned drives about in buggies,
Tom sometimes takes a 'bus;
Ah, cruel fate, why made you
My children differ thus?
Why make of Tom a dullard,
And Ned a genius?"

"You'll cut him with a shilling,"
Exclaimed the man of wits:

"I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford,
"Sir Lawyer, as befits;
And portion both their fortunes

Unto their several wits."

"Your Grace knows best," the lawyer said,

"On your commands I wait." "Be silent, Sir," says Brentford, "A plague upon your prate!

Come, take

your pen and paper,
And write as I dictate."

The will as Brentford spoke it
Was writ and signed and closed;
He bade the lawyer leave him,
And turn'd him round and dozed;
And next week in the churchyard
The good old King reposed.

Tom, dress'd in crape and hatband,
Of mourners was the chief;
In bitter self-upbraidings

Poor Edward showed his grief:
Tom hid his fat white countenance
In his pocket-handkerchief.

Ned's eyes were full of weeping,

He falter'd in his walk;

Tom never shed a tear,

But onwards he did stalk,
As pompous, black, and solemn,
As any catafalque.

And when the bones of Brentford

That gentle king and justWith bell and book and candle Were duly laid in dust, "Now, gentlemen," says Thomas, "Let business be discussed.

"When late our sire beloved
Was taken deadly ill,
Sir Lawyer, you attended him
(I mean to tax your bill);
And, as you signed and wrote it,
I pr'ythee read the will."

The lawyer wiped his spectacles,
And drew the parchment out;
And all the Brentford family
Sate eager round about :
Poor Ned was somewhat anxious,
But Tom had ne'er a doubt.

"My son, as I make ready

To seek my last long home, Some cares I had for Neddy, But none for thee, my Tom: Sobriety and order

You ne'er departed from.

"Ned hath a brilliant genius, And thou a plodding brain; On thee I think with pleasure, On him with doubt and pain." ("You see, good Ned," says Thomas, "What he thought about us twain.")

"Though small was your allowance, You saved a little store;

And those who save a little

Shall get a plenty more."

As the lawyer read this compliment,
Tom's eyes were running o'er.

"The tortoise and the hare, Tom,

pace;

Set out, at each his
The hare it was the fleeter,-

The tortoise won the race;
And since the world's beginning
This ever was the case.

"Ned's genius, blithe and singing,
Steps gaily o'er the ground;
As steadily you trudge it,

He clears it with a bound;
But dulness has stout legs, Tom,

And wind that's wondrous sound.

"O'er fruits and flowers, alike, Tom,
You pass with plodding feet;
You heed not one nor t'other
But onwards go your beat,
While Genius stops to loiter
With all that he may meet;

"And ever as he wanders,
Will have a pretext fine,
For sleeping in the morning,
Or loitering to dine,
Or dozing in the shade,
Or basking in the shine.

"Your little steady eyes, Tom,
Though not so bright as those
That restless round about him
Your flashing Genius throws,
Are excellently suited

To look before your nose.

"Thank heaven, then, for the blinkers
It placed before your eyes;
The stupidest are strongest,
The witty are not wise;
Oh, bless your good stupidity,
It is your dearest prize!

"And though my lands are wide,
And plenty is my gold,
Still better gifts from Nature,
My Thomas, do you hold-
A brain that's thick and heavy,
A heart that's dull and cold.

"Too dull to feel depression,
Too hard to heed distress,
Too cold to yield to passion
Or silly tenderness.

March on your road is open
To wealth, Tom, and success.

"Ned sinneth in extravagance,
And you in greedy lust,"
("I' faith," says Ned, our father
Is less polite than just,")

"In you, son Tom, I've confidence,
But Ned I cannot trust.

"Wherefore my lease and copyholds,
My lands and tenements,
My parks, my farms, and orchards,
My houses and my rents,
My Dutch stock and my Spanish stock,
My five and three per cents;

"I leave to you, my Thomas,"
("What all?" poor Edward said;
"Well, well, I should have spent them,
And Tom's a prudent head")

"I leave to you, my Thomas,-
To you IN TRUST for Ned."

The wrath and consternation
What poet e'er could trace
That at this fatal passage

Came o'er Prince Tom, his face;

The wonder of the company,

And honest Ned's amaze !