The pelted village idol, by the way, With hideous grin uplifts his hoary pate, To make a parson swear, or poacher pray, Or frighten some old woman passing late. Perchance a supple New Poor-Law Commissioner, On plans of pauper diet deep intent, May start and think of some white-haired petitioner, Turned out to starve by act of parliament. But what cares he for hot, cold, wet, or dry? Thanks to the Whigs, he gets his sal-a-ry. 12 Lavater d. 1801. "I think I've seen your face before." "WERRY LIKE." 26 Botany Bay colonized, 1788. [Illustration] [Illustration] Rejoice and praise, in merry lays, The wisdom of the wigs, Which kindly found, on classic ground, A paradise for prigs. Assembled there, in talent rare, Each knave salutes a brother, And friendly yet, their wit they whet, By practice on each other. 31 Young Pretender d. 1788. _N.B._ Race not extinct. MY DANCING DAYS ARE OVER. _By the Gentleman in the White Waistcoat._ My dancing days are over now, My legs are just like stumps; My fount of youth dried up, alas! Wont answer to the pumps, Yet who so fond of jigs as I? Of hornpipes such a lover? Of gallops, valses,—but, alas! My dancing days are over. In feats of feet, what foot like mine (Excuse me if vain-glorious:) Like mine for grace and dignity No toe was more notorious. Oh! then what joy it was to hear _Roy's Wife_ or _Kitty Clover_! But _Drops of Brandy_ now won't do: My dancing days are over. My feet seem fastened down with screws, That were so glib before; And my ten light fantastic toes Seem toe'-nailed to the floor. I cannot bear a ball room now, Where once I lived in clover; Terpsichore quite made me sick; My dancing days are over. I used to dance the New Year in, And dance the Old Year out; Ah! little did I then reflect That _chacun à son_ gout, All summer thro' I skipped and hopped, At Margate, Ramsgate, Dover. The year was then one spring—but now My dancing days are over.