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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.'

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Piron and the Judge of the Police.

PIRON, a poet of the Gallic nation,
Who beat all waggish rivals hollow,
Was apt to draw his inspiration
Rather from Bacchus than Apollo.
His hostess was his deity,

His Hippocrene was eau-de-vie,
And though 'tis said

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,
Of sins that ever man repented,

None of you blames this cursed thirst
With which I'm constantly tormented.

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Worse than a cholic or a phthisic,
E'en now it gripes me so severely,
That I must fly to calm it, merely
Swallowing brandy as a physic.”—

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,
Was an egregious ninny-hammer.

"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,

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A clownish Yorkshire farmer-one
Who, by his uncouth look and gait,
Appear'd expressly meant by Fate
For being quizz'd and play'd upon :
So having tipp'd the wink to those
In the back rows,

Who kept their laughter bottled down
Until our wag should draw the cork,
He smiled jocosely on the clown,


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,
"Do pray keep silence down below there.
Now look at me, clown, and attend,
Have I not seen you somewhere, friend?"-
"Yees-very like-I often go there."
"Our rustic's waggish-quite laconic,”
The counsel cried with grin sardonic;-
"I wish I'd known this prodigy-
This genius of the clods, when I

On circuit was at York residing.-
Now, Farmer, do for once speak true,-
Mind, you're on oath, so tell me, you
Who doubtless think yourself so clever,
Are there as many fools as ever


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,
Trinity College, Cambridge, there resided
One Harry Dashington-a youth excelling.
In all the learning commonly provided
For those who choose that classic station
For finishing their education :-
That is he understood computing

The odds at any race or match;
Was a dead hand at pigeon-shooting;

Could kick up rows-knock down the watch-
Play truant and the rake at random—
Drink-tie cravats and drive a tandem.

Remonstrance, fine, and rustication,
So far from working reformation,

Seem❜d but to make his lapses greater,
Till he was warn'd that next offence
Would have this certain consequence-
Expulsion from his Alma Mater.

One need not be a necromancer
To guess that, with so wild a wight,
The next offence occurr❜d next night,
When our Incurable came rolling

Home as the midnight chimes were tolling,
And rang the College bell.—No answer.—

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.

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