The Three Warninge.

THE tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground;
'Twas therefore said by ancient sages,
That love of life increased with years
So much, that in our latter stages,
When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages,
The greatest love of life

appears.

This strong affection to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive,
If old assertions can't prevail,
Be pleased to hear a modern tale.

When sports went round, and all were gay
On neighbour Dobson's wedding-day,
Death call'd aside the jocund groom
With him into another room,

And looking grave, " You must," says he,

Quit your sweet bride, and come with me."

With you! and quit my Susan's side!

"With you!" the hapless husband cried:
Young as I am! 'tis monstrous hard:
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared;
My thoughts on other matters go;
This is my wedding-night, you know."

What more he urged, I have not heard;
His reasons could not well be stronger;
So Death the poor delinquent spared,
And left to live a little longer.

Yet, calling up a serious look,

His hour-glass trembled while he spoke:
'Neighbour," he said, "farewell: no more
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour;
And farther, to avoid all blame
Of cruelty upon my name,
To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for your future station,
Three several warnings you shall have
Before you're summon'd to the grave:
Willing for once, I'll quit my prey,
And grant a kind reprieve;

In hopes you'll have no more to say,
But when I call again this way,

Well pleased the world will leave."
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befel.,
How long he lived, how wisely well;
How roundly he pursued his course,
And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse,
The willing muse shall tell:

He chaffer'd then, he bought, he sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old,
Nor thought of death as near;
His friends not false, his wife no shrew;
Many his gains, his children few,
He pass'd his smiling hours in peace;
And still he view'd his wealth increase.
While thus, along life's dusty road,
The beaten track content he trod,
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncall'd, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year-
When, lo! one night in musing mood,
As all alone he sat,

The unwelcome messenger of fate Once more before him stood.

Half kill'd with anger and surprise,

So soon return'd?" old Dobson cries.

"So soon, do you call it?" Death replies: "Surely, my friend, you're but in jest; Since I was here before,

'Tis six and thirty years at least, And you are now fourscore."

"So much the worse," the clown rejoin'd;

"To spare the aged would be kind:

Besides, you promised me Three warnings

Which I have look'd for, nights and mornings: And for that loss of time and ease,

I can recover damages."

I know," says Death, "that, at the best,

I seldom am a welcome guest;

But don't be captious, friend, at least:

I little thought you'd still be able
To stump about your farm and stable;
Your years have run to a great length,
I wish you joy though of your strength."

Hold," says the farmer," not so fast;

I have been lame these four years past.”

"And no great wonder," Death replies:
However, you still keep your eyes;
And sure, to see one's loves and friends,
For legs and arms may make amends."

Perhaps, says Dobson, "so it might,
But latterly I've lost my sight."

"This is a shocking tale, in truth;

But there's some comfort still," says Death:
Each strives your sadness to amuse;

I warrant, you hear all the news.'

"There's none," he cries; "and if there were
I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear."
"Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoin'd,
These are unjustifiable yearnings;
If you are lame, and deaf, and blind,
You have your three sufficient warnings,
So come along, no more we'll part:"
He said and touch'd him with his dart;
And now old Dobson, turning pale,
Yields to his fate.-So ends my tale.

The Razor-Seller.

A FELLOW, in a market-town,

Most musical cried razors up and down,
And offer'd twelve for eighteen-pence;
Which certainly seem'd wondrous cheap,
And, for the money, quite a heap,

As every man would buy, with cash and sense.

A country bumpkin the great offer heard:

Poor Hodge! who suffer'd by a thick, black beard,
That seem'd a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose,

With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid,
And proudly to himself, in whispers, said,
"This rascal stole the razors, I suppose!

"No matter if the fellow be a knave, Provided that the razors shave:

It sartinly will be a monstrous prize.”

So, home the clown, with his good fortune, went,
Smiling in heart and soul content,

And quickly soap'd himself to ears and eyes.
Being well lather'd from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,
Just like a hedger cutting furze:

"Twas a vile razor!-then the rest he tried-
All were impostors-"Ah!" Hodge sigh'd,
"I

I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse!"

In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces,
He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamp'd, and swore;
Brought blood and danced, blasphemed and made wry
And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er!

His muzzle, form'd of opposition stuff,
Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff;
So kept it-laughing at the steel and suds:
Hodge, in a passion, stretch'd his angry jaws,
Vowing the direst vengeance, with clinch'd claws,
On the vile cheat that sold the goods.

46

Razors! a hanged confounded dog!

Not fit to scrape a hog!"

Hodge sought the fellow-found him, and began-
Perhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun,

That people flay themselves out of their lives:
You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing,
Giving my scoundrel whiskers here a scrubbing,
With razors just like oyster-knives.
Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave,
To cry up razors that can't shave."

"Friend," quoth the razor-man, “I am no knave:
As for the razors you have bought,

Upon my soul, I never thought

That they would shave."

[faces,

"Not think they'd shave!" quoth Hodge, with wondering And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; [eyes, "What were they made for then, you dog!" he cries. "Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile,-" to sell."

Pinaar

The Case Altered.

HODGE held a farm, and smiled content,
While one year paid another's rent;
But, if he ran the least behind,
Vexation stung his anxious mind;
For not an hour would landlord stay,
But seize the very quarter-day.
How cheap soe'er or scant the grain,
Though urged with truth, was urged in vain.
The same to him, if false or true;

For rent must come when rent was due.
Yet that same landlord's cows and steeds
Broke Hodge's fence, and cropp'd his meads.
In hunting, that same landlord's hounds-
See! how they spread his new-sown grounds.
Dog, horse, and man, alike o'erjoy'd,
While half the rising crop's destroy'd;
Yet tamely was the loss sustain'd.
"Tis said, the sufferer once complain'd:
The Squire laugh'd loudly while he spoke,
And paid the bumpkin-with a joke.

But luckless still poor Hodge's fate:
His worship's bull had forced a gate,
And gored his cow, the last and best;
By sickness he had lost the rest.
Hodge felt at heart resentment strong-
The heart will feel that suffers long.
A thought that instant took his head,
And thus within himself he said:

"If Hodge, for once, don't sting the Squire, May people post him for a liar!"

He said across his shoulder throws
His fork, and to his landlord goes.

"I come, an't please you, to unfold
What, soon or late, you must be told.
My bull-a creature tame till now-
My bull has gored your worship's cow.
'Tis known what shifts I make to live:
Perhaps your honour may forgive."
"Forgive!" the Squire replied, and swore;
Pray cant to me, forgive, no more;