Your spark from Dublin up, I'll soon be doubling up in town! If, Pat, you would divine the cause, behold this nymph divine; You 've won the hand of Betsy Brown, now try a taste of mine!” The Corp'ral laid a bet he'd beat, but Betsy held her rib-- “Be aisy, daisy I--Lying lout! we'll see which best can fib! A trick worth two I'll shew you, by St. Patrick, merry saint!” Poor Betsy fainted in his arms--the Corp'ral made a feint. Jack ey'd the pump, and thither hied, and filled a bucket quick, And chuck'd it o'er his chuck, for fear she should the bucket kick; Then gave a tender look, and join'd a tender in the river-- What afterwards became of him we never could diskiver. “The City of London and the trade thereof,” and other standing toasts, having been drunk with the accustomed honours, Uncle Timothy addressed Mr. Bosky, “Thy _Epilogue_, Benjamin. Drop we the curtain on this mountebank drama, and cry quittance to conjurors.” Mr. Bosky. But what is an _Epilogue_ without a dress coat, a _chapeau bras_, black velvets and paste buckles? _Nous verrons!_ And the Lauréat rose, put on a stage face, stood tea-pot fashion, and poured out his soul. Mr. Bosky. Knights of the Table Round! in verse sublime, I fain would tell how once upon a time, When George the Second, royally interr'd, Resign'd his sceptre to King George the Third- Uncle Tim. Bosky, dismounting Pegasus, suppose You sit, and speak your epilogue in prose, Not in falsetto flat, and thro' the nose, Like those Who warble “knives to grind,” and cry “old clothes!”