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A thundering voice replies, " What miscreant
knave Dares break the sabbath of old Wyschard's grave?
"No miscreant knave, worm-eaten sir, am I, But Hodge the sexton :-knave! I scorn the word,
I at my honest calling work, for why? Your kinsman's just brought down to be interr'd.'
My kinsman's to be buried here?-Oh, oh! What year of our Lord is it, fellow, let me know.'
'Tis eighteen hundred, sir, and two.'
Ay, goodman sexton, say you so ? Then Time on me a march hath stole;
'Twas near seven hundred years ago That I became the tenant of this hole :
Men like myself behind I left but few; Since then the world, I wot, is fangled all anew! “Tell me, in sooth, are other folks like thee?
For, by thy voice, thou seem'st a tiny elf.' “Tiny! quoth Hodge: 'Zooks, I am six feet three!
There's no man in the hundred but myself Can say as much—thy namesake that is dead, I'll warrant him, was shorter by the head.'
Thy words lack proof: I prithee, honest friend, Thrust through this chink thy little finger's end!
Whence I may know if thou the truth doth state, And judge, by sample small, of thy dimensions
great.' Thought Hodge- Although I little fear the
dead, • Fool-hardy mortals perils strange environ.'
His finger then withheld he, but, instead Thrust in his pickaxe nozzle, sheath'd with iron :
And he was in the right,
For at a single bite
Hence, lying varlet, bear
In the stoutest of your race
REV. G, HUDDESFORD,
ON A RUINED HOUSE IN A ROMANTIC COUNTRY.
AND this reft house is that, the which he built,
[moon! Peeps in fair fragments forth the full orbed harvest
PARODY UPON GRAY'S ODE OF "THE
This parody was written at Trinity College, Cambridge, and
arose from the circumstance of the author's barber coming too late to dress him at bis lodgings, at the shop of Mr. Jack son, an apothecary at Cambridge, where he lodged, till a vacancy in the College, by which he lost his dinner in the hall; when, in imitation of the despairing bard, who prophesied the destruction of King Edward's race, he poured forth his carses upon the whole race of barbers, predicting. their ruin in the simplicity of a future generation.
THE BARBER. * Ruin seize thee, scoundrel Coe! Confusion on thy frizzing wait; Hadst thou the only comb below, Thou never more shouldst touch my pate. Club nor queue, nor twisted tail, Nor e’en thy chattering, barber! shall avail To save thy horsewhipp'd back from daily fears, From Cantab's curse, from Cantab's tears !' Such were the sounds that o'er the powder'd pride Of Coe the barber scatter'd wild dismay, As down the steep of Jackson's slippery lane He wound with puffing march his toilsome tardy
way. In a room where Cambridge town Frowns o'er the kennels' stinking flood, Robed in a flannel powdering gown, With haggard eyes poor Erskine stood : (Long his beard, and blowzy hair,. Stream'd like an old wig to the troubled air);
And with clung guts, and face than razor thinner,
Mark the year, and mark the night,
“ Mighty barbers, mighty lords,
" The porter mug fill high,