But the beggar man made a mumping face,
And knock'd at every gate :

It made me curse to hear how he whin'd,
So our fellowship turn'd to hate,

And I bade him walk the world by himself,

For I scorn'd so humble a mate!

So he turn'd right and I turn'd left,

As if we had never met;

And I chose a fair stone house for myself,

For the city was all to let ;

And for three brave holydays drank my fill
Of the choicest that I could get.

And because my jerkin was coarse and worn,
I got me a properer vest;

It was purple velvet, stitch'd o'er with gold,
And a shining star at the breast !—

'Twas enough to fetch old Joan from her grave

To see me so purely drest !—

But Joan was dead and under the mould,
And every buxom lass;

In vain I watch'd, at the window pane,
For a Christian soul to pass!

But sheep and kine wander'd up the street,
And browz'd on the new-come grass.—

When lo! I spied the old beggar man,
And lustily he did sing!-

His rags were lapp'd in a scarlet cloak,
And a crown he had like a King;
So he stept right up before my gate
And danc'd me a saucy fling!

Heaven mend us all !—but, within my mind,
I had kill'd him then and there;
To see him lording so braggart-like
That was born to his beggar's fare ;
And how he had stol'n the royal crown
His betters were meant to wear,

But God forbid that a thief should die
Without his share of the laws!
So I nimbly whipt my tackle out,
And soon tied up his claws,-

I was judge myself, and jury, and all,

And solemnly tried the cause.

But the beggar man would not plead, but cried

Like a babe without its corals,

For he knew how hard it is apt to go,

When the law and a thief have quarrels,—

There was not a Christian soul alive

To speak a word for his morals,

Oh, how gaily I doff'd my costly gear,
And put on my work-day clothes;

I was tired of such a long Sunday life,—

And never was one of the sloths;

But the beggar man grumbled a weary deal,

And made many crooked mouths.

So I haul'd him off to the gallows' foot,

And blinded him in his bags;

'Twas a weary job to heave him up,

For a doom'd man always lags;

But by ten of the clock he was off his legs

In the wind, and airing his rags!

Oн a pistol, or a knife!

For I'm weary of my life,

My cup has nothing sweet left to flavour it ;
My estate is out at nurse,

And my heart is like my purse—

And all through-backing of the Favourite!

At dear O'Neil's first start,

I sported all my heart,

Oh, Becher, he never marr'd a braver hit!

For he cross'd her in her race,

And made her lose her place,

And there was an end of that Favourite!

Anon, to mend my chance,

For the Goddess of the Dance*

*The late favourite of the King's Theatre, who left the pas seul of life, for a perpetual Ball. Is not that her effigy now commonly borne about by the Italian image vendors-an ethereal form holding a wreath with both hands above her head-and her husband, in emblem, beneath her foot?

I pin'd and told my enslaver it ;
But she wedded in a canter,

And made me a Levanter,

In foreign lands to sigh for the Favourite!

Then next Miss M. A. Tree

I adored, so sweetly she

Could warble like a nightingale and quaver it ;

But she left that course of life

To be Mr. Bradshaw's wife,

And all the world lost on the Favourite!

But out of sorrow's surf

Soon I leap'd upon the turf,

Where fortune loves to wanton it and waver it;

But standing on the pet,

"Oh my bonny, bonny Bet!"

Black and yellow pull'd short up with the Favourite

Thus flung by all the crack,

I resolv'd to cut the pack,—

The second-raters seem'd then a safer hit!

So I laid my little odds

Against Memnon! Oh, ye Gods!

Am I always to be floored by the Favourite!

THE BALLAD OF

"SALLY BROWN, AND BEN THE CARPENTER."

I HAVE never been vainer of any verses than of my part in the following Ballad. D:. Watts, amongst evangelical nurses, has an enviable renown-and Campbell's Ballads enjoy a snug genteel popularity. "Sally Brown" has been favoured, perhaps, with as wide a patronage as the Moral Songs, though its circle may not have been of so select a class as the friends of "Hohenlinden."

T

But I do not desire to see it amongst what are called Elegant Extracts. The lamented Emery, drest as Tom Tug, sang it at his last mortal Penefit at Covent Garden ;—and, ever since, it has been a great favourite with the watermen of Thames, who time their oars to it, as the wherry-men of Venice time theirs to the lines of Tassa With the watermen, it went naturally to Vauxhall :—and, over land. to Sadler's Wells. The Guards, not the mail coach, but the Life Guards,-picked it out from a fluttering hundred of others—all going to one air-against the dead wall at Knightsbridge. Cheap Printers of Shoe Lane, and Cowcross, (all pirates !) disputed about the Copyright, and published their own editions,—and, in the meantime, the Authors, to have made bread of their song, (it was poor old Homer's hard ancient case !)must have sung it about the streets. Such is the lot of Literature! the profits of "Sally Brown" were divided by the Ballad Mongers :-it has cost, but has never brought me, a half-penny.

FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN.

AN OLD BALLAD.

I.

Young Ben he was a nice young man.
A carpenter by trade;

And he fell in love with Sally Brown,
That was a lady's maid.

II.

But as they fetch'd a walk one day,

They met a press-gang crew;

And Sally she did faint away,

While Ben he was brought to.

III.

The Boatswain swore with wicked words,

Enough to shock a saint,

That though she did seem in a fit,

'Twas nothing but a feint.