The price of cattle and grain, my boy,
Directions to dig and to drain, my boy,
But 'twould take me too long

To tell you in song

A quarter of all they contain, my boy.

THE CITIZEN AND THE THIEVES.

From a Pamphlet, published in 1609.

A CITIZEN, for recreation's sake,

To see the country would a journey take
Some dozen miles or very little more;

Taking his leave with friends two months before,
With drinking healths and shaking by the hand,
As he had travell'd to some new-found land.
Well, taking horse, with very much ado,
London he leaveth for a day or two:

And as he rideth, meets upon the way

Such as (what haste soever) bid men stay.

'Sirrah,' says one, 'stand, and your purse deliver, I am a taker, thou must be a giver.

Unto a wood, hard by, they hail him in,
And rifle him unto his very skin.

'Misters,' quoth he, 'pray hear me ere you go;

For you have robb'd me more than you do know, My horse, in truth, I borrow'd of my brother; The bridle and the saddle of another;

The jerkin and the bases, be a tailor's ;
The scarf, I do assure you, is a sailor's;
The falling band is likewise none of mine,
Nor cuffs, as true as this good light doth shine.
The satin doublet, and raised velvet hose
Are our churchwarden's, all the parish knows.
The boots are John the grocer's at the Swan;
The spurs were lent me by a serving-man.
One of my rings-that with the great red stone-
In sooth, I borrow'd of my gossip Joan :

Her husband knows not of it, gentle man!

Thus stands my case-I pray show favour then.'

'Why,' quoth the thieves, thou needst not greatly

care,

Since in thy loss so many bear a share;

The world goes hard, and many good folks lack,
Look not, at this time, for a penny back.

Go, tell at London thou didst meet with four,
That rifling thee, have robb'd at least a score.'

THE JOVIAL PRIEST'S CONFESSION.

Translated from the Latin of Walter de Mapes, time of Henry II.

BY LEIGH HUNT.

I DEVISE to end my days—in a tavern drinking,

May some Christian hold for me-the glass when I am shrinking,

That the cherubim may cry-when they see me sinking, God be merciful to a soul-of this gentleman's way of thinking.

A glass of wine amazingly—enlighteneth one's internals; 'Tis wings bedew'd with nectar--that fly up to supernals; Bottles crack'd in taverns-have much the sweeter kernals,

Than the sups allowed to us-in the college journals.

Every one by nature hath-a mould which he was cast

in;

I happen to be one of those who never could write

fasting;

By a single little boy-I should be surpass'd in

Writing so I'd just as lief-be buried; tomb'd and grass'd in.

Every one by nature hath—a gift too, a dotation :
I, when I make verses-do get the inspiration.
Of the very best of wine-that comes into the nation:
It maketh sermons to astound-for edification.

Just as liquor floweth good-floweth forth my lay so; But I must moreover eat-or I could not say so; Naught it availeth inwardly-should I write all day

so;

But with God's grace after meat—I beat Ovidius Naso.

Neither is there given to me-prophetic animation,

Unless when I have ate and drank-yea, ev'n to satura

tion;

Then in my upper storey-hath Bacchus domination, And Phoebus rushes into me, and beggareth all relation.

THE COLLEGIAN AND THE PORTER.

J. R. PLANCHÉ.

J. R. Planché, Esq., is well known as one of the most successful of living play-wrights, and also as a distinguished member of the Society of Antiquaries. He may be said to be the founder of the modern school of burlesque, as he is certainly the ablest writer who has turned his attention to that popular class of dramatic composition. Mr. Planché in his early days wrote a number of humorous pieces in the style of Colman and Peter Pindar, many of which have become highly popular. He now holds the office of Rouge Croix Pursuivant in the Herald Office.

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.

'Tis past the hour-the gates are closed-
You know my orders-I shall lose
My place if I undo the door.'
'And I' (young Hopeful interposed)
'Shall be expell'd if you refuse,
So prythee'-Ben began to snore.

'I'm wet,' cried Harry, 'to the skin,
Hip! hallo! Ben-don't be a ninny;

S