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great-coat, aged eighty" or, "Cut off in the prime of his Cossack trowsers, aged threescore and ten❞—or, Suddenly snatched from his friends in the first year of his Petersham hat, and sixty-seventh of his age”Mr. such-a-one. And should I myself survive a certain friend, which I hardly wish now that he has disfigured himself so piteously, I will take care to perpetuate that which he has vainly endeavoured to cut off from my recollection, by inscribing on his tomb— "Here lies Frank Hartopp, the last of the Pigtails.'
Piron and the Judge of the Police.
PIRON, a poet of the Gallic nation,
His Hippocrene was eau-de-vie,
That poets live not till they die,
When living he was often dead,—
That is to say, dead drunk." While I,”
Quoth Piron, "am by all upbraided
With drunkenness, the vilest, worst,
Most base, detestable, degraded,
None of you blames this cursed thirst
Worse than a cholic or a phthisic,
To cure this unrelenting fever
He pour'd such doses through his lips, he Was shortly what the French call ivre, 'Anglicè-tipsy;
And while the midnight bell was pealing
Its solemn tolling,
Our Bacchanal was homeward reeling,
Tumbling and rolling,
Until at last he made a stop,
Suffering his noddle, which he could not keep Upright, upon the ground to drop,
And in two minutes was asleep
Fast as a top
Round came the guard, and seeing him extended Across the gutter,
Incompetent to move or utter,
They thought at first his days were ended;
But finding that he was not dead,
Having lost nothing but his head,
They popp'd him on a horse's back,
Just like a sack,
And shot him on the guard-house floor,
To let him terminate his snore.
Next morning, when our tippling bard
Had got his senses,
They brought a coach into the yard,
And drove him off to answer his offences,
Before the judge of the police,
Who made a mighty fuss and clamour;
But, like some justices of peace,
Who know as much of law as grammar,
"Well, fellow," cried the magistrate, "What have you got to say for boozing, Then lying in the streets and snoozing All night in that indecent state ?”
"Sir," quoth the culprit to the man of law, "It was a frost last night in town, And tired of tripping, sliding, and slipping, Methought I might as well lie down, And wait until there came a thaw." "Pooh! nonsense! psha! Imprisonment must be the lot
Of such a vagabond and sot.
But tell me, fellow, what's your name?” "Piron."-" The dramatist?""The same." "Ah, well, well, well, Monsieur Piron,
Pray take your hat and quit the court, For wags like you must have their sport; But recollect, when you are gone, You'll owe me one, and thus I show it: I have a brother who's a poet,
A clownish Yorkshire farmer-one
Who kept their laughter bottled down
And went to work.
'Well, Farmer Numscull, how go calves at York?" Why-not, Sir, as they do wi' you,
But on four legs instead of two."
“Officer!” cried the legal elf,
Piqued at the laugh against himself,
On circuit was at York residing.-
In the West Riding?"
Why no, Sir, no; we've got our share,
But not so many as when you were there."
The Collegian and the Porter.
AT Trin. Coll. Cam.-which means, in proper spelling,
The odds at any race or match;
Could kick up rows-knock down the watch-
Remonstrance, fine, and rustication,
Seem❜d but to make his lapses greater,
One need not be a necromancer
Home as the midnight chimes were tolling,
The second peal was vain-the third
Made the street echo its alarum ; When to his great delight he heard The sordid Janitor, old Ben,
Rousing and growling in his den.
"Who's there?—I s'pose young Harum-scarum."
""Tis I, my worthy Ben-'tis Harry."
Ay, so I thought—and there you'll tarry.