The smoky call of sooty-breathing morn, The servants stirring just above their head, The milk-_man’s_ whistle, or a mail-guard’s horn, Shall soon arouse them from their feather bed: For they no more will risk “another turn,” But to their former posts with haste repair, To greet some cousin-German’s safe return, And of his orders crave the bliss――a share. (_Thirteen verses omitted here._) Whoe’er to torpid indolence a prey, His busy cares in trade hath oft resign’d; Quitted the race of fortune for a day, Is left by jostling brothers far behind. Thus on the game of chance the soul relies, ’Till fading nature peace and rest requires; ’Till from the tomb are heard death’s warning cries, To join in partnership with buried sires. For thee, who patiently thus far hast read These faithful memoirs of thine humble state, If chance (when thou art number’d with the dead) Some wag, like me, enquire into thy fate, Haply some hoary hooker-in may say, “Oft have we seen him as the clock struck eight, Bending his steps with eager haste away, On new-come customers intent to wait. “There at the end of yonder spacious street, By time and usage nominated ‘High,’ Some few ‘choice spirits’ of his kin he’d meet, To pounce upon the buyers passing by. “Hard by yon Inn, yclep’d the ‘Mosley Arms,’ To circulate his cards he’d daily rove; Now drooping, woeful man, with strange alarms, And craz’d with care that goods he could not move. “One morn I miss’d him at the ’custom’d post, Along the street, and near his fav’rite Inn; Another came,――I thought him surely lost,―― ’Twas ten o’clock, and he had never been! “The next, with coaches two, in sad array, Slow to the ‘Rushholme Ground,’ I saw him borne; Go there, and read the plain, but honest lay, Grav’d on the stone above this wight forlorn.” EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, A youth respected, and in town well known; But fortune smil’d not on his humble birth, Though many merchants sought him for their own. Large was his knowledge, and his soul sincere, But they a paltry recompense did send; They gave him only eighty pounds a year, And never paid him till its very end. No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from the silent tomb; There they alike in trembling hope repose, Till he receives his solemn, final doom. From “_Gimcrackiana_, or Fugitive pieces on Manchester Men and Manners.” By Geoffrey Gimcrack. Manchester. 1833. ――――:o:―――― MEDITATIONS ON MR. BARRY’S NEW HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT. _Written on Board the “Lily” Steamboat._ The wharf-bell tolls the knell of starting steam The jostling crowd pours quickly o’er the pier; The ladies forward rush with timid scream, And leave the stern to _Punch_, and bottled beer.