Far from the hope of sharing in the strife, Their wearied minds to other objects stray To that glad moment when with fork and knife, They keep their eager jaws at last in play. Yet e’en in court, some slight relief to gain, Small slips of paper, torn from foolscap nigh, Which wretched rhymes and pointless puns contain, From hand to hand across the table fly. A name――a verse unsanctioned by the muse, The place of wit and poetry supply, And jingling jests which sound with sense confuse, Will make the wags almost with laughter die. For who to dumb attentiveness a prey, This pleasing power of folly e’er resigned, Kept the warm precincts of the court all day, Nor cast one lagging, lingering joke behind? In some fond jest the weary soul relies, Some tinkling thought, the closing eyes require E’en labouring dulness against nature tries, And rakes the ashes of its brain for fire. For thee who mindful of the briefless crew Dost in these lines their hopeless cause relate, If one perchance with nothing else to do Should feel disposed to ask thy after fate. Haply, some stuff-clad rusty sage may say, “Oft have we seen his tall and lanky form Brushing with hasty steps to court away To take his place where all the idle swarm. Then, in the midst of some dull nodding speech, While Gurney all their mirth to hush would try; His listless mind in verse and puns he’d stretch, And pour them on the crew which babbled by, Unchecked his aim by gravity, or scorn, Mustering his scattered forces he would sit, Now drooping woeful at a jest still-born, Now worn with care in trying for a hit. One circuit missed him (’twas the one in Lent) From all the places where he used to be; Another came, nor yet in Hertford, Kent, In Essex, Sussex, Surrey, e’en was he. The next we heard his country he had fled, And died an exile under distant skies; Approach and read――for it may well be read This Epitaph which Bolland’s muse supplied.” EPITAPH. Here rests his body in Australia’s land, A youth to naval glory not unknown; But e’er promotion shook him by the hand, The Palace Court had marked him for its own. Large was his practice, as his age could reach, And large his recompense, as well could be; He gave to juries all he had――a speech, He gained from clients all he wished――a fee. No longer seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his blunders from this prison dark; Where cheek by jowl, they lovingly repose, The bosoms of the Attorney and his clerk. ――――:o:―――― ELEGY. _On a favourite Washerwoman, Mrs. Bridget Mulligan._ Farewell old friend and memory ever dear, Thy earnest labour at the tub is o’er, Let every friend to merit, shed a tear, For Biddy Mulligan is now no more.