My health's of such a sort, To say the truth, in short, The coats of my stomach are not Spencers! [The following poem was written for a picture of Chisholme's, in the "Forget-me-not" for 1833.] THE CHINA-MENDER. GOOD morning, Mr. What-d'ye-call! Well! here's another pretty job! Lord help my Lady!-what a smash!-if you had only heard her sob! It was all through Mr. Lambert: but for certain he was winey, To think for to go to sit down on a table full of Chiney. "Deuce take your stupid head!" says my Lady to his very face; But politeness, you know, is nothing, when there's Chiney in the case; And if ever a woman was fond of Chiney to a passion It's my mistress, and all sorts of it, whether new or old fashion. Her brother's a sea-captain, and brings her home shiploads Such bonzes, and such dragons, and nasty, squatting things like toads; And great nidnoddin' mandarins, with palsies in the head: I declare I've often dreamt of them, and had nightmares in my bed. But the frightfuller they are-lawk! she loves them all the better : She'd have Old Nick himself made of Chiney if they'd let her. And a little boy caught it in his little hat, and an officer's eye seem'd to care for it, As my bad crown piece went through his bad crown piece, and they took me up to Queen's Square for it. Oh, Charity, &c. I let my very old (condemn'd) old house to a man, at a rent that was shockingly low, So I found a roof for his ten motherless babes-all defunct and fatherless now; For the plaguy one-sided party wall fell in, so did the roof, on son and daughter, And twelve jurymen sat on eleven bodies, and brought in a very personal verdict of Manslaughter. Oh, Charity, &c. I pick'd up a young well-dress'd gentleman, who had fallen in a fit in St. Martin's Court, And charitably offer'd to see him home-for charity always seem'd to be my forte, And I've had presents for seeing fallen gentlemen home, but this was a very unlucky job Do you know, he got my watch-my purse-and my handkerchief-for it was one of the swell mob. Oh, Charity, &c. Being four miles from Town, I stopt a horse that had run away with a man, when it seem'd that they must be dash'd to pieces, Though several kind people were following him with all their might-but such following a horse his speed increases; I held the horse while he went to recruit his strength; and I meant to ride it home, of course; But the crowd came up and took me up-for it turn'd out the man had run away with the horse. Oh, Charity, &c. I watch'd last month all the drovers and drivers about the suburbs, for it's a positive fact, That I think the utmost penalty ought always to be enforced against everybody under Mr. Martin's act; But I couldn't catch one hit over the horns, or over the shins, or on the ears, or over the head; And I caught a rheumatism from early wet hours, and got five weeks of ten swell'd fingers in bed. Oh, Charity, &c. Well, I've utterly done with Charity, though I us'd so to preach about its finest fount; Charity may do for some that are more lucky, but I can't turn it to any account It goes so the very reverse way—even if one chirrups it up with a dust of piety; That henceforth let it be understood, I take my name entirely out of the List of Subscribers to the Humane Society. Oh, Charity, &c. VOL. VI. 18 274 THE CIGAR. "Here comes Mr. Puff."-The Critic. 'I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curl'd."-MOORE. SOME sigh for this and that; My wishes don't go far; Some fret themselves to death With Whig and Tory jar I don't care which is in, Sir John requests my vote, I don't care how it goes, Some want a German row, Some wish a Russian war; I care not-I'm at peace, I never see the Post, I seldom read the Star; So I have my cigar. They tell me that Bank Stock Is sunk much under par; It's all the same to me, So I have my cigar. Honours have come to men So I have my cigar. Ambition frets me not; I worship no vain gods, But serve the household Lar; I'm sure to be at home, So I have my cigar. I do not seek for fame, A General with a scar; A private let me be, So I have my cigar. To have my choice among Some minds are often tost By tempests like a tar; I always seem in port, The ardent flame of love |