Says my lord-' I beg you will call it ee; I'll be off to the Paynims beyond the sea(Oh Thrope! Ann Thrope! Oh Miss Ann Thrope!) And leave you eftsoons to die.' Ah! who could resist?--Not Miss Ann Thrope- So then they put it to the vote, He tipp'd the Lozel a one pound note, And they jump'd together into the boat(Oh Thrope! Ann Thrope! Oh Miss Ann Thrope!) And bid her papa good night. ANONYMOUS. TWO HEADS BETTER THAN ONE. As Yorkshire Humphry t'other day Numps gazing stood, and, wondering how A sharper, prowling near the spot, And soon with fish-hook finger turns Numps feels a twitch, and turns around The thief, with artful leer, Says, 'Sir, you'll presently be robb'd, Quoth Numps, 'I don't fear London thieves, I'se not a simple youth; My guinea, measter, 's safe enow: I've put'n in ma mouth!' 'You'll pardon me,' the rogue replies, Then modestly retires; The artful prowler takes his stand When thus the elder thief began: 'Leave that to me,' young Filcher says, By this time Numps had gazed his fill, 'O Lord! O dear! my money's lost!' While halfpence, falling from his hand, The passengers now stoop to find And Humphry, with this friendly band, 'There is thy pence,' quoth Numps, ' my boy, Be zure thee haulds 'em faster.' My pence!' quoth Filch, here is my pence; 6 Help, help! good folks, for God's sake, help!' The elder thief was lurking near, Then roars out, Masters, here's the coin, Humphry, astonish'd, thus begins, 'Good measters, hear me, pray;' But Duck him! duck him! is the cry: 6 'And now,' quoth Numps, I will believe What often I've heard zaid, That London thieves will steal the teeth Out of a body's head!' ANONYMOUS. OLD WYSCHARD. VOLUMES of historic lore Read, and you'll find that heretofore And hurl it at your pericrane, Which half a dozen folks of modern make, With force combined, would strive to lift in vain. By gallant Guy of Warwick slain He cut from her enormous side a sirloin, And in his porridge-pot her brisket stew'd; "Then butcher'd a wild boar and ate him barbecued. When Pantagruel ate salt pork Six waiting-jacks were set at work To shovel mustard into 's chops. These you will allow were men of mould, But we, their progeny, are mere milk sops: They drank whole tuns at a sup, to wet their throttles, But we are a race of starvelings-I'll be shot else- 'Twas so the sage Monboddo wrote: You'll see come forward and advance And that they tell their friends no lies I'll show you by collateral circumstance. There lived-though that is somewhat wide O'the purpose-I should say, there died A squire, and Wyschard was his name: Pictish and Saxon ancestry Illustrated his pedigree, And many a noble imp of fame: Yet these renowned ancestors, As if they had been vulgar sons of whores, Were long, long since by all the world forgot Save by himself: he knew the very spot Where they had each been coffin'd up to rot; And in his will directions gave exact Amongst those venerable dads to have his carcass pack'd. Now deep the sexton burrows to explore The sepulchre that these old worthies hid; Something at last that seem'd a huge barn-door, But was no other than a coffin lid, Opposed his efforts; long it spread, and wide, And angry sounds; yet could not this abate |