A thundering voice replies, What miscreant knave Dares break the sabbath of old Wyschard's grave?' "No miscreant knave, worm-eaten sir, am I, But Hodge the sexton :-knave! I scorn the word, I at my honest calling work, for why? Your kinsman's just brought down to be interr'd.' My kinsman's to be buried here?—Oh, oh! What year of our Lord is it, fellow, let me know.'''Tis eighteen hundred, sir, and two.' 6 Ay, goodman sexton, say you so? Then Time on me a march hath stole; "Twas near seven hundred years ago That I became the tenant of this hole : Men like myself behind I left but few; Since then the world, I wot, is fangled all anew! 'Tell me, in sooth, are other folks like thee? For, by thy voice, thou seem'st a tiny elf.' 'Tiny!' quoth Hodge: 'Zooks, I am six feet three! There's no man in the hundred but myself Can say as much-thy namesake that is dead, I'll warrant him, was shorter by the head.' "Thy words lack proof: Iprithee, honest friend, Thrust through this chink thy little finger's end! Whence I may know if thou the truth doth state, And judge, by sample small, of thy dimensions great.' Thought Hodge-' Although I little fear the dead, 'Fool-hardy mortals perils strange environ.' His finger then withheld he, but, instead Thrust in his pickaxe nozzle, sheath'd with iron: And he was in the right, For at a single bite Old Wyschard snapp'd it off clean as a whistle.'Hence, lying varlet, bear Your pigmy corpse elsewhere, 'Twould Wyschard's grave disgrace! There's no more substance than a bit of gristle.' REV. G. HUDDESFORD. SONNET ON A RUINED HOUSE IN A ROMANTIC COUNTRY. AND this reft house is that, the which he built, Lamented Jack! and here his malt he piled, Cautious in vain! Those rats that squeak so wild, Squeak, not unconscious of their father's guilt. Did ye not see her gleaming through the glade! Belike, 'twas she, the maiden all forlorn, What though she milk no cow with crumpled horn, His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white,` noon, COLERIDGE, PARODY UPON GRAY'S ODE OF THE BARD.' This parody was written at Trinity College, Cambridge, and arose from the circumstance of the author's barber coming too late to dress him at his lodgings, at the shop of Mr. Jackson, an apothecary at Cambridge, where he lodged, till a vacancy in the College, by which he lost his dinner in the hall; when, in imitation of the despairing bard, who prophesied the destruction of King Edward's race, he poured forth his curses upon the whole race of barbers, predicting their ruin in the simplicity of a future generation. THE BARBER. 'RUIN seize thee, scoundrel Coe! Nor e'en thy chattering, barber! shall avail As down the steep of Jackson's slippery lane way. In a room where Cambridge town Frowns o'er the kennels' stinking flood, Stream'd like an old wig to the troubled air); And with clung guts, and face than razor thinner, Swore the loud sorrows of his dinner. Hark! how each striking clock and tolling bell, With awful sounds, the hour of eating tell! O'er thee, oh Coe! their dreaded notes they wave, Soon shall such sounds proclaim thy yawning grave; Vocal in vain, through all this lingering day, The grace already said, the plates are swept away. • Cold is Beau **'s tongue, That soothed each virgin's pain; Bright perfumed M** has cropp'd his head: Each youth whose high toupee Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-capp'd head In humble Tyburn-top we see; Esplash'd with dirt and sun-burn'd face; With me in dreadful resolution join, [line.' To crop with one accord, and starve they cursed "Weave the warp, and weave the woof, Mark the year, and mark the night, When all their shops shall echo with affright, Loud screams shall through St. James's turrets To see, like Eton boy, the king! [ring, Puppies of France, with unrelenting paws "Mighty barbers, mighty lords, Poor Coe is gone all supperless to bed. The swarm that in thy shop each morning sat [beaux, Fair laughs the morn, when all the world are That hid in some dark court expects his evening prey. "The porter mug fill high, Baked curls and locks prepare; Reft of our heads, they yet by wigs may live! Close by the greasy chair Fell thirst and famine lie, No more to art will beauteous nature give. |