OLD DENNIS, the author of several plays, passing by a brandy shop, the master came out, and desired the favour of him to drink a dram. "For what reason?" said Dennis. "Because," said the master, "you are a dram atic poet." When Dennis had complied with the invitation, and was going to walk away, the master asked him to pay for it. Dennis, surprised, said, "Did you not ask me to drink a dram, because I was a dramatic_poet?" "Yes, sir," replied the master, "but I would not have asked had I thought you a you, drama-tiek poet."

Less priz'd, more useful, for your desk decreed, Free to all pens, and prompt to every need. The wretch whom avarice bids to pinch and

spare,

Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir,
Is coarse brown paper, such as pedlars choose,
To wrap up wares which better men will use.
Take next the spendthrift's contrast, who de
stroys

Health, fame, and fortune, în a round of joys;
Will any paper mark him? Yes, throughout,
He's a true sinking paper, past all doubt.
The retail politician's anxious thought,
Deems this side always right, and that stark
nought;

He foams with censure, with applause he rares,
A dupe to rumours, and a fool to knaves;
He'll want no type his weakness to proclaim,
While such a thing as fool's cap has a name.
Who picks a quarrel if you step awry,
The hasty gentleman, whose blood runs high,
Who can't a jest, a hint, or look endure;
What's he? what! Touch paper to be sure,
What are our poets-take them as they fall;
Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all
Them and their works in the same class you'll
find,

They're mere waste paper of the human kind,
Observe the maiden. innocently sweet,
She's fair white paper, an unsullied sheet,
On which the happy man, whom fate ordains,
May write his name, and take her for his pains.-
One instance more, and only one I'll bring,
"Tis the great man who scorns a little thing,
Whose thoughts, whose deeds, whose maxims
Form'd in the feelings of his heart alone;
are his own,
True genuine royal paper is his breast,
Of all the kinds most precious, purest, best.

Satire.

Tales.

BY DR. BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.

SOME wit of old, such wits of old there were, Whose hints shew'd meaning, whose allusions

care,

By one brave stroke to mark all human kind,
Call'd clear blank paper every infant mind;
Ere yet had opening sense her dictates wrote,
Fair Virtue put a seal, or Vice a blot.

The thought was happy, pertinent, and true,
Methinks a genius might the plan pursue;
I, can you pardon my presumption, I,

No wit, no genius, yet for once, will try-
The various papers various wants produce,
The wants of fashion, elegance, and use;
Men are as various, and if right 1 scan,
Each sort of paper represents some man.
Pray, note the fop, half powder and half lace,
Nice as a band-box were his dwelling place,
He's the gilt paper, which apart you store,
And lock from vulgar hands in the scrutoire.
Mechanics, servants, farmers, and so forth,
Are copy paper, of inferior worth,

VAT YOU PLEASE.

SOME years ago, when civil faction

Rag'd like a fury thro' the fields of Gaul; And children, in the general distraction, Were taught to curse as soon as they could squall;

When common sense in common folk was dead, And murder shew'd a Love of nationality; And France determin'd not to have a head, Decapitated all the higher class,

To put folks more on an equality;
When coronets were not worth half a crown,
And Liberty in bonnet-rouge, might pass
For Mother Red-cap up at Camden Town;
Full many a Frenchman then took wing,

Bidding soup-maigre an abrupt farewell,
And hither came pell-mell,

Sans cash, sans clothes, almost sans ev'ry thing'

But Boniface, who dearly lov'd a jest, (Although sometimes he dearly paid for it,) And finding nothing could be done, you know, (For when a man has got no money,

To make him pay some would be rather funny!) Of a bad bargain made the best, Acknowledg'd much was to be said for it; Took pity on the Frenchman's meagre face, And, Briton-like, forgave a fallen foe, Laugh'd heartily, and let him go.

Our Frenchman's hunger thus subdued,
Away he trotted in a merry mood;
When turning round the corner of a street,
Who, but his countryman he chanc'd to meet !
To him, with many a shrug and many a grin,
He told how he had taken Jean Bull in!

Fir'd with the tale, the other licks his chops,
Makes his congee, and seeks this shop of shops.
Ent'ring, he seats himself, just at his ease,
"What will you take, Sir"—" Vat you please!"
The waiter look'd as pale as Paris plaster,
And, upstairs running, thus address'd his Master:
"These d-d Mounseers come over sure in
pairs;

"Sir, there's another 'vat you please!' down stairs."

This made the Landlord rather crusty,

Too much of one thing-the proverb's somewhat

musty:

Once to be done, his anger didn't touch,

But, when a second time they tried the treason, It made him crusty, Sir, and with good reason: You would be crusty were you done so much.

There is a kind of instrument

Which greatly helps a serious argument, And which, when properly applied, occasions Some most unpleasant tickling sensations! 'Twould make more clumsy folks than Frenchmen skip;

"Twould strike you presently-a stout Horsewhip.

This instrument our Maitre d'Hote
Most carefully conceal'd beneath his coat.
And, seeking instantly the Frenchman's sta-
tion,

Address'd him with the usual salutation.

Our Frenchman, bowing to his threadbare knees,
Determin'd whilst the iron's hot to strike it,
Pat with his lesson answers-" Vat you please!”
But scarcely had he let the sentence slip,
Than round his shoulders twines the pliant whip!
"Sare, Sare! ah, misericorde! parbleu!

"Got d-m, monsieur, vat make you use me so?

"Vat call you dis?"-"Lord, don't you know?

"That's what I please, (says Bonny;) how d'ye like it?

"Your friend, although I paid dear for his funning,

"Deserv'd the Goose he gain'd, Sir, for his cunning;

"But you, Monsieur, or else my time I'm wast

ing,

"Are Goose enough-and only wanted basting."

Death, to the virtuous, may be regarded as he serene sun-set of a well-spent life.

Draco and Pisistratus, punished idleness with leath. Pericles sent colonies to Chersonesus, Naxos, Andros, Thrace, and even to Italy, to id Athens of the indolent.

The Lacedemonians taught their children hate and avoid intemperance and drunkensess, by causing a drunken man to be brought before them, to shew what a beast he had made of himself.

A religion that renounces any of our natual duties does not come from God. Large offers and sturdy rejections, are among the most common topics of falsehood. Man, in a state of solitary indolence, is like stagnant water, which soon becomes putrid and corrupted.

BY MR. FRANCIS BROWNE.

ONE day, simple Hodge, long our object of fun,
To shew us his valour, took out his old gun;
And said, if we'd step to the garden a minute,
We should hear the report of the charge that was
in it;
And that the explosion might not appear small,
He put in two more charges of powder and ball;
Then drawing the trigger, it went off with a crack
That levell'd poor Roger quite flat on his back.
To afford him assistance all speedily run,
When Hodge cries, "For God's sake, keep off
from the gun:

Since one bounce has nearly deprived me of

breath,

The two that remain are infallibly death!"

Trifles.

WRITTEN IN THE ARBOUR OF MRS. C, IN CHESHIRE.

A FRIEND of mine was married to a scold,
To me he came, and all his grievance told,-
Says he, she's like a woman raving mad;
Alas! my friend, says I, that's very bad;
No, not so bad, says he-with her, 'tis true,
I had both house and land, and money too;
That was well, says I-No, not so well, says he,
For I and her own brother,

Went to law with one another,
But I was cast, the suit was lost,
And every penny went to pay the cost;

That was bad, says I—No, not so bad, says he,
For he agreed that he the house should keep,
And give me one four score of Yorkshire sheep,
All fat and fine were they to be;

Why, then, says I, sure that was well for thee;
No, not so well, says he, for ere the sheep I got,
They, every one, were seiz'd and died o' the rot;
That was bad, says I-No, not so bad, says he,
For I thought to scrape it into fat, d'ye see,
To melt it into tallow for the winter store;
Why, then, says I, that's better than before-
No, not so well, says he, for being a clumsy fel-
low,

To scrape up the fat, and melt it into tallow,
Unto the melting pot the fire catches,

And, like the brimstone matches, burnt my house to ashes;

Sure that was bad, says I—No, not so bad, says

he,

For what was best, my scolding wife was burnt

among the rest.

ON A CLUB OF SOTS.

THE jolly members of a toping club,
Like pipestaves, are but hoop'd into a tub;
And in a close confederacy link,
For nothing else, but only to hold drink.

LINES ON A SERMON FALLING OUT OF A CLERGYMAN'S POCKET.

A SERMON from a parson fell,
As he rode out one day;
The text was sure remarkable-
"Don't fall out by the way."

This may seem strange to some no doubt,
But 'tis not strange to me,

For text and sermon oft fall out,
And sadly disagree.

SORE troubled by the tooth-ache, Lubin ran
To get the murd'rer of his quiet drawn-
An artist, in an instant, whips it out,
"Well Master Snag, what Ize to pay."
"A shilling "Zounds! a shilling do ye say,"
With a long staring face, replies the lout;
Lord, why Ize did not feel it-'twas not in it;
You know you wern't about it half a minute:
To gie so much Ize cursedly unwilling;
Lord, for a tooth! but yesterday, Old Slop
Did drag one by the tooth all round his shop
Three times, and only ax'd a shilling.'

BY THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

THIS morning when the earth and sky Were beaming with the blush of Spring, I saw thee not, thou humble fly,

Nor thought upon thy gleaming wing.

But now the skies have lost their hue,
And sunny lights no longer play,
I see thee, and I bless thee too,

For sparkling o'er the dreary way.
Oh! let me hope, that thus for me,

When life and love shall lose their bloom, Some milder joys may come, like thee, To light, if not to warm, the gloom.

ΤΟ

BY THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. SWEET lady! look not thus again, Those little pouting smiles recall; A maid remember'd now with pain, Who was my love, my life, my all!

Oh! while this heart delirious took

Sweet poison from her thrilling eye, Thus would she pout, and lisp, and look, And I would hear, and gaze, and sigh!

Yes, I did love her-fondly loveShe was the dearest, best deceiver! And oft she swore she'd never rove; And I was destin'd to believe her!

Then, lady, do not wear the smile
Of her whose smile could thus betray;
Alas! I think the lovely wile

Again might steal my heart away.

And when the spell that stole my mind,
On lips so pure as thine I see,
I fear the heart which she resign'd
Will err again, and fly to thee!

THE DREAM.

T'OTHER night in a dream, far too sweet be true,

A few of our gems were disclos'd to my view; And left on my mem'ry so strong an impression, I'll relate what I saw without further digression.

Tom Moore, the soft master of harp and of song,

First gladdened my eyes in the midst of the throng;

In a bower of myrtles and vine-leaves he rested
Which no noxious animals ever molested:
A piano and books lay in pleasant confusion,
But nought that was gloomy dared offer intre
sion;

Anacreon the joys of Elysium forsook,
To converse with his friend in this exquisite
work;

And Xenephon too, with his wisdom and honey, Repos'd with the bard, in his bower so sunny? While rivers of wine, ruby-coloured and glow ing,

Like his own sparkling verse, soothed the mind by their flowing:

With a chaplet of laurels his brows were in circled,

And his robe, like the poets of old, was impurpled.

So Tom Moore appeared to my ecstacied vision, When a strain of loud music was heard in addi