“Too small for any marketable shift, What purpose can there be for coins like these?” Hush, hush, good Sir!--Thus charitable Thrift May give a _Mite_ to him who wants a cheese! THE SURPLICE QUESTION. BY A BENEDICT. A very pretty public stir Is making, down at Exeter, About the surplice fashion: And many bitter words and rude Have been bestowed upon the feud, And much unchristian passion. For me, I neither know nor care Whether a Parson ought to wear A black dress or a white dress; Fill’d with a trouble of my own,-- A Wife who preaches in her gown, And lectures in her night-dress! THE EPPING HUNT. “HUNT’S ROASTED----” “On Monday they began to hunt.”--_Chevy Chase._ John Huggins was as bold a man As trade did ever know, A warehouse good he had, that stood Hard by the church of Bow. There people bought Dutch cheeses round And single Glos’ter flat; And English butter in a lump, And Irish--in a _pat_. Six days a week beheld him stand, His business next his heart, At _counter_, with his apron tied About his _counter-part_. The seventh, in a Sluice-house box He took his pipe and pot; On Sundays, for _eel-pie_ty, A very noted spot. Ah, blest if he had never gone Beyond its rural shed! One Easter-tide, some evil guide Put Epping in his head! Epping, for butter justly famed, And pork in sausage popp’d; Where, winter time or summer time, Pig’s flesh is always _chopp’d_. But famous more as annals tell, Because of Easter chase; There every year, ’twixt dog and deer, There is a gallant race. With Monday’s sun John Huggins rose, And slapped his leather thigh, And sang the burden of the song, “This day a stag must die.” For all the live-long day before, And all the night in bed, Like Beckford, he had nourished “Thoughts On Hunting” in his head. Of horn and morn, and hark and bark, And echo’s answering sounds, All poets’ wit hath ever writ In _dog_-rel verse of _hounds_. Alas! there was no warning voice To whisper in his ear, Thou art a fool in leaving _Cheap_ To go and hunt the _dear_. No thought he had of twisted spine, Or broken arms or legs; Not _chicken-hearted_ he, although ’Twas whispered of his _eggs_! Ride out he would, and hunt he would, Nor dreamt of ending ill; Mayhap with Dr. _Ridout’s_ fee, And Surgeon _Hunter’s_ bill. So he drew on his Sunday boots, Of lustre superfine; The liquid black they wore that day Was _Warren_-ted to shine. His yellow buckskins fitted close, As erst upon a stag; Thus well equipped he gayly skipped, At once upon his nag.