At last there came a pause of brutal force;

The cur was silent, for his jaws were full

Of tangled locks of tarry wool;

The man had whooped and bellowed till dead hoarse,
The time was ripe for mild expostulation,

And thus it stammered from a stander-by

"Zounds! my good fellow,- it quite makes me why

It really my dear fellow - do just try

Conciliation! "

Stringing his nerves like flint,

The sturdy butcher seized upon the hint,

At least he seized upon the foremost wether,

And hugged and lugged and tugged him neck and crop
Just nolens volens through the open shop-

If tails come off he did n't care a feather,-
Then walking to the door, and smiling grim,
He rubbed his forehead and his sleeve together-
"There! I've conciliated him!"

Again-good-humoredly to end our quarrel
(Good humor should prevail !)
I'll fit you with a tale

Whereto is tied a moral.

Once on a time a certain English lass

Was seized with symptoms of such deep decline,
Cough, hectic flushes, every evil sign,
That, as their wont is at such desperate pass,
The doctors gave her over to an ass.

Accordingly, the grisly Shade to bilk,
Each morn the patient quaffed a frothy bowl
Of assinine new milk,

Robbing a shaggy suckling of a foal

Which got proportionably spare and skinny

Meanwhile the neighbors cried "Poor Mary Ann!
She can't get over it! she never can!'

When, lo! to prove each prophet was a ninny,
The one that died was the poor wet-nurse Jenny.

To aggravate the case,

There were but two grown donkeys in the place;
And, most unluckily for Eve's sick daughter,
The other long-eared creature was a male,
Who never in his life had given a pail
Of milk, or even chalk and water.

No matter at the usual hour of eight
Down trots a donkey to the wicket-gate,
With Mister Simon Gubbins on his back,-

"Your sarvant, Miss,-a werry spring-like day,-
Bad time for hasses, though! good lack! good lack!
Jenny be dead, Miss, but I'ze brought ye Jack,-
He does n't give no milk - but he can bray."

So runs the story,

And, in vain self-glory,

Some Saints would sneer at Gubbins for his blindness; But what the better are their pious saws

To ailing souls, than dry hee-haws,

Without the milk of human kindness?

A TABLE OF ERRATA.

(Hostess loquitur.)
WELL! thanks be to Heaven,

The summons is given;

It's only gone seven,

And should have been six;

There's fine overdoing

In roasting and stewing,

And victuals past chewing
To rags and to sticks!
How dreadfully chilly!
I shake, willy-nilly;
That John is so silly,

And never will learn
This plate is a cold one,
That cloth is an old one,-
I wish they had told one

The lamp would n't burn,

:

Now then for some blunder
For nerves to sink under
I never shall wonder,
Whatever goes ill.

That fish is a riddle!
It's broke in the middle.

A Turbot! a fiddle!
It's only a Brill!

It's quite over-boiled too,
The butter is oiled too,
The soup is all spoiled too,
It's nothing but slop.
The smelts looking flabby,
The soles are as dabby,
It all is so shabby

That Cook shall not stop!

As sure as the morning,
She gets a month's warning,
My orders for scorning —
There's nothing to eat!
I hear such a rushing,
I feel such a flushing,

I know I am blushing
As red as a beet!

Friends flatter and flatter,
I wish they would chatter;
What can be the matter

That nothing comes next?
How very unpleasant!
Lord! there is the pheasant!
Not wanted at present,

I'm born to be vext!

The pudding brought on too,
And aiming at ton too!
And where is that John too,

The plague that he is? He's off on some ramble: And there is Miss Campbell, Enjoying the scramble, Detestable Quiz!

The veal they all eye it,
But no one will try it,

An Ogre would shy it
So ruddy as that!
And as for the mutton,
The cold dish it's put on
Converts to a button

Each drop of the fat.

The beef without mustard! My fate's to be flustered, And there comes the custard

To eat with the hare! Such flesh, fowl, and fishing, Such waiting and dishing,

I cannot help wishing

A woman might swear!

O dear! did I ever
But no, I did never
Well, come, that is clever,

To send up the brawn!
That cook, I could scold her,
Gets worse as she's older;
I wonder who told her

That woodcocks are drawn!

It's really audacious!

I cannot look gracious;
Lord help the voracious

That came for a cram !
There's Alderman Fuller
Gets duller and duller.
Those fowls, by the color,

Were boiled with the ham!

Well, where is the curry?
I'm all in a flurry.

No, Cook's in no hurry

A stoppage again!
And John makes it wider,

A pretty provider !

By bringing up cider

Instead of champagne !

My troubles come faster!
There's my lord and master
Detects each disaster,

And hardly can sit :

He cannot help seeing,