A Coppersmith I can’t endure-- Nor petty Usher A, B, C-ing; A Publican? no father, sure, Would be the author of his being! XIII. A Paper-maker?--come he must To rags before he sells a sheet-- A Miller?--all his toil is just To make a meal--he does not eat. XIV. A Currier?--that by favour goes-- A Chandler gives me great misgiving-- An Undertaker?--one of those That do not hope to get their living! XV. Three Golden Balls?--I like them not; An Auctioneer I never did-- The victim of a slavish lot, Obliged to do as he is bid! XVI. A Broker watching fall and rise Of Stock?--I’d rather deal in stone,-- A Printer?--there his toils comprise Another’s work beside his own. XVII. A Cooper?--neither I nor Jem Have any taste or turn for that,-- A fish-retailer?--but with him, One part of trade is always flat. XVIII. A Painter?--long he would not live,-- An Artist’s a precarious craft-- In trade Apothecaries give, But very seldom take, a draught. XIX. A Glazier?--what if he should smash! A Crispin he shall not be made-- A Grazier may be losing cash, Although he drives a “roaring trade.” XX. Well, something must be done! to look On all my little works around-- James is too big a boy, like book, To leave upon the shelf unbound. XXI. But what to do?--my temples ache From evening’s dew till morning’s pearl, What course to take my boy to make-- Oh could I make my boy--a girl! CLUBS, TURNED UP BY A FEMALE HAND. “Clubs! Clubs! part ’em! part ’em! Clubs! Clubs!”--ANCIENT CRIES OF LONDON. Of all the modern schemes of Man, That time has brought to bear, A plague upon the wicked plan That parts the wedded pair! My female friends they all agree They hardly know their hubs; And heart and voice unite with me, “We hate the name of Clubs!” One selfish course the Wretches keep; They come at morning chimes, To snatch a few short hours of sleep-- Rise--breakfast--read the Times-- Then take their hats, and post away, Like Clerks or City scrubs, And no one sees them all the day,-- They live, eat, drink, at Clubs! On what they say, and what they do, They close the Club-House gates; But one may guess a speech or two, Though shut from their debates: “The Cook’s a _hasher_--nothing more-- The Children noisy grubs-- A Wife’s a quiz, and home’s a bore”-- Yes,--that’s the style at Clubs! With Rundle, Dr. K., or Glasse, And such Domestic Books, They once put up--but now, alas! It’s hey! for foreign cooks! “When _will_ you dine at home, my Dove?” I say to Mister Stubbs,-- “When Cook can make an omelette, love,-- An omelette like the Clubs!”