Your work is hard, with slender pay; You really must have some advance, "Service is no inheritance." If they be not awake, the sages Will 'bate your work and raise your wages: But if you're balk'd, and time runs on, Inquiry's made why you're not gone? Your fellow-servants, you explain, Prevail'd on you to 'stop again.' But when you _do_ go (you're the judge Whether it's worth your while to budge), Say "You have left so vile a race, That none will venture on the place." Now take an honest friend's advice,-- Answer, when call'd not less than thrice; "Dogs only come at the first whistle," And then in hopes of bone or gristle. "Who's there?" when some wiseacres call, Who's there? is no one's name at all: Keep quiet; let 'em 'make a page' One of exactly 'their own age,' And when you're found, the helpless elves Have done the mighty job themselves. Whate'er you do, abhor a tell-tale, In all things else you scarce can well fail; But when a servant turns his back, Then all at once be at him smack, And ev'ry fault the rest have done Ascribe to him, when once he's gone. First, then, (though you are no detractor,) "He got in with a false charàcter; He was ungrateful,--oh, most horrid! Deceit itself 'rit in his forrid,' And one 'more wastefuller' of store, 'Never set foot into a door;' 'Twas him that spoilt the street-door lock, 'Twas him that broke the parlour clock, That did whatever he might please, That had a 'perfect set of keys!' That nothing 'went' but he receiv'd it, And 'shipp'd it off' when once he'd thiev'd it." If ask'd (which must be quite a bore), "Pray why not tell all this before?" Say that you thought it most judicious Not to appear "the least malicious:" And when you're tired of blaming flunkey, Comes lap-dog, parrot, cat, and monkey. 'Twill vastly mend your situation, To meet with one false accusation; For ev'ry fault you thence commit, Of course you think it just and fit To make to that some pert allusion, To all the family's confusion: In short, your triumph's now so plain, They never dare find fault again. Well, then: don't go and be so hateful, As to turn round, and prove ungrateful, Drawing fresh pertness from my page, E'en should you reach Methus'lem's age, And whilst I've plann'd my whole endeavour, For you and for your 'AIRS' for ever! Now then for conjuration tricks: Turn bottles into candlesticks, And, unrestrained by vulgar rules, Good four-legg'd chairs to three-legg'd stools. Make dusters out of fancy-works, Chew'd paper into patent corks, With sundry excellent expedients, Form'd from the most grotesque ingredients, Which can't be quite politely spoken, When any thing is lost or broken. The tongs or shovel serves the stoker