PLAINT OF THE OLD PAUPER. Some boast of their §FORE§-fathers—I— I have not §ONE§! I am, I think, like Joshua, The son of §NONE§! Heedless in youth, we little note How quick time passes, For then flows ruby wine, not sand, In §OUR§ glasses! Rich friends (most pure in honor) all have fled Sooner or later; Pshaw! had they India’s spices, they’d not be A nutmeg-§GRATER§! I’ve neither chick nor child; as I have nothing, Why, ’tis lucky rather; Yet who that hears a squalling baby wishes Not to be §FATHER§? Some few years back my spirits and my youth Were quite amazin’; Brisk as a pony, or a lawyer’s clerk, Just fresh from §Gray’s Inn§! What am I now? weak, old, and poor, and by The parish found; Their §PENCE§ keeps me, while many an ass Enjoys the parish §POUND§! TO MY NOSE. Knows he that never took a pinch, Nosey! the pleasure thence which flows? Knows he the titillating joy Which my nose knows? Oh, nose! I am as fond of thee As any mountain of its snows! I gaze on thee, and feel that pride A Roman knows! BOOK-LARCENY. Sir Walter Scott said that some of his friends were bad _accountants_, but excellent _book-keepers_. How hard, when those who do not wish To lend—that’s lose—their books, Are snared by anglers—folks that fish With literary hooks; Who call and take some favorite tome, But never read it through; They thus complete their sett at home, By making one of you. I, of my Spenser quite bereft, Last winter sore was shaken; Of Lamb I’ve but a quarter left, Nor could I save my Bacon. They picked my Locke, to me far more Than Bramah’s patent worth; And now my losses I deplore, Without a Home on earth. Even Glover’s works I cannot put My frozen hands upon; Though ever since I lost my Foote, My Bunyan has been gone. My life is wasting fast away; I suffer from these shocks; And though I’ve fixed a lock on Gray, There’s gray upon my locks.