Old Grasp regards thee with a frown, Old Hardy marks thee for a shot, Young Stanley longs to knock thee down, And Subtle mourns her ruin’d plot, And bans thy bones--alas! for why! A tender curiosity! Oh leave the Hardys to themselves-- Leave Mrs. Subtle to her dreams-- ’Tis true that they were laid on shelves-- Leave Stanley, junior, to his schemes; More things there are, the public sigh To know the rights of, Mr. Pry! There’s Lady L---- the late Miss P----, Miss P---- and lady both were late, And two in ten can scarce agree, For why the title had to wait; But thou mightst learn from her own lips What wind detain’d the lady-ship? Or Mr. P.!--the sire that nursed Thy youth, and made thee what thou art, Who form’d thy prying genius first-- (Thou wottest his untender part), ’Twould be a friendly call and fit, To know “how soon he hopes to sit.” Some people long to know the truth Whether Miss T. does mean to try For Gibbon once again--in sooth, Thou mightst indulge them, Mr. Pry; A verbal extract from the brief Would give some spinsters great relief! Suppose, dear Pry, thou wert to dodge The porter’s glance, and just drop in At Windsor’s shy sequester’d lodge, (Thou wilt, if any man can win His way so far)--and kindly bring Poor Cob’s petition to the king. There’s Mrs. Coutts--hath she outgrown The compass of a prying eye? And, ah! there is the Great Unknown, A man that makes the curious sigh; ’Twere worthy of your genius quite To bring that lurking man to light. O, come abroad, with curious hat, And patch’d umbrella, curious too-- To poke with this, and pry with that-- Search all our scandal through and through, And treat the whole world like a pie Made for thy finger, Mr. Pry! ON STEAM. BY AN UNDER-HOSTLER. I wish I livd a Thowsen year Ago Wurking for Sober six and Seven milers And dubble Stages runnen safe and slo The Orsis cum in Them days to the Bilers But Now by means of Powers of Steam forces A-turning Coches into Smoakey Kettels The Bilers seam a Cumming to the Orses And Helps and naggs Will sune be out of Vittels Poor Bruits I wunder How we bee to Liv When sutch a change of Orses is our Faits No nothink need Be sifted in a Siv May them Blowd ingins all Blow up their Grates And Theaves of Oslers crib the Coles and Giv Their blackgard Hannimuls a Feed of Slaits! ALLEGORY. A MORAL VEHICLE.