“Hark!” said Mr. Bosky, as a voice of cock-crowing cacchination sounded under his window, “there is my St. Bartlemy-tide chorister. For twenty years has Nestor Nightingale proclaimed the joyous anniversary with a new song.” And having thrown up the sash, he threw down his accustomed gratuity, and was rewarded with THE INQUISITIVE FARMER, OR HARLEQUIN HANGMAN. Harlequin, taking a journey to Bath, Put up at an inn with his dagger of lath. He supp'd like a lord,--on a pillow of down He slept like a king, and he snored like a clown. Boniface said, as he popp'd in his head, “In that little crib by the side of your bed, As honest a farmer as e'er stood in shoes, (My chambers are full) would be glad of a snooze.” The farmer began, as in clover he lay, To talk of his clover, his corn-rigs, and hay, His bullocks, his heifers, his pigs, and his wife; Not a wink could our Harlequin get for his life. He reckon'd his herds, and his flocks, and his fleece, And drove twice to market his ducks and his geese; He babbled of training, and draining, and scythes, And hoeing, and sowing, and taxes, and tithes. “To the fair do you carry a pack, or a hunch? Are you mountebank doctor, or pedlar, or Punch? What is your calling? and what is your name? Are you single, or married,--or coward, or game?” Poor Harlequin, fretting, lay silent and still, While the farmer's glib tongue went as fast as a mill. “Where are you going? and whence do you come? How long do you tarry?--the deuce! are you dumb?” “I'm the hangman” said Harlequin, sir, of the town; I cut in the morning a highwayman down; And fix in the market-place up, for a flag, To-morrow his head, which I bear in my bag!” The talkative farmer jump'd up in a fright-- (“If you look for the bag, friend, it lies on your right!”) Ran out of the chamber, and roar'd for the host, Shrieking, and shaking, and pale as a ghost! Boniface listen'd, bolt upright in bed, To the cock-and-bull story of hangman and head; And then caught the mountebank, snug on his back, Holding his sides, which were ready to crack! Loud laugh'd the landlord at Harlequin's trick. “As soon,” cry'd the farmer, “I'd sup with Old Nick, As sleep in this room with that gibbetting wag, With a head on his shoulders, and one in his bag!”