To Mrs. W.’s luck a contradiction, Her window still stood open to conviction; And by short course of circumstantial labour, He fixed the guilt upon his adverse neighbour;-- Lord! how he rail’d at her: declaring now, He’d bring an action ere next Term of Hilary, Then, in another moment, swore a vow, He’d make her do pill-penance in the pillory! She, meanwhile distant from the dimmest dream Of combating with guilt, yard-arm or arm-yard, Lapp’d in a paradise of tea and cream; When up ran Betty with a dismal scream-- “Here’s Mr. Burrell, ma’am, with all his farm-yard!” Straight in he came, unbowing and unbending, With all the warmth that iron and a barber Can harbour; To dress the head and front of her offending, The fuming phial of his wrath uncorking; In short, he made her pay him altogether, In hard cash, very _hard_, for ev’ry feather, Charging of course, each Bantam as a Dorking; Nothing could move him, nothing made him supple, So the sad dame unpocketing her loss, Had nothing left but to sit hands across, And see her poultry “going down ten couple.” Now birds by poison slain, As venom’d dart from Indian’s hollow cane, Are edible; and Mrs. W.’s thrift,-- She had a thrifty vein-- Destined one pair for supper to make shift,-- Supper as usual at the hour of ten: But ten o’clock arrived and quickly pass’d, Eleven--twelve--and one o’clock at last, Without a sign of supper even then! At length the speed of cookery to quicken, Betty was call’d, and with reluctant feet, Came up at a white heat-- “Well, never I see chicken like them chickens! My saucepans, they have been a pretty while in ’em! Enough to stew them, if it comes to that, To flesh and bones, and perfect rags; but drat Those Anti-biling Pills! there is no bile in ’em!” PLAYING AT SOLDIERS. “WHO’LL SERVE THE KING?” AN ILLUSTRATION. What little urchin is there never Hath had that early scarlet fever, Of martial trappings caught? Trappings well call’d--because they trap And catch full many a country chap To go where fields are fought! What little urchin with a rag Hath never made a little flag, (Our plate will show the manner,) And wooed each tiny neighbour still, Tommy or Harry, Dick or Will, To come beneath the banner! Just like that ancient shape of mist, In Hamlet, crying, “‘List, O ‘list!” Come, who will serve the king, And strike frog-eating Frenchmen dead, And cut off Boneyparty’s head?-- And all that sort of thing. So used I, when I was a boy, To march with military toy, And ape the soldier’s life;-- And with a whistle or a hum, I thought myself a Duke of Drum At least, or Earl of Fife.