One market morning, in my usual rambles, Passing along Whitechapel's ancient shambles, Where meat was hung in many a joint and quarter, I had to halt a while, like other folks, To let a killing butcher coax A score of lambs and fatted sheep to slaughter. A sturdy man he looked to fell an ox, Bull-fronted, ruddy, with a formal streak Of well-greased hair down either cheek, As if he dee-dashed-dee'd some other flocks Besides those woolly-headed stubborn blocks That stood before him, in vexatious huddle-- Poor little lambs, with bleating wethers grouped, While, now and then, a thirsty creature stooped And meekly snuffed, but did not taste the puddle. Fierce barked the dog, and many a blow was dealt, That loin, and chump, and scrag and saddle felt, Yet still, that fatal step they all declined it-- And shunned the tainted door as if they smelt Onions, mint-sauce, and lemon-juice behind it. At last there came a pause of brutal force; The cur was silent, for his jaws were full Of tangled locks of tarry wool; The man had whooped and bellowed till dead hoarse, The time was ripe for mild expostulation, And thus it stammered ftom a stander-by-- "Zounds!--my good fellow--it quite makes me--why It really--my dear fellow--do just try Conciliation!" Stringing his nerves like flint, The sturdy butcher seized upon the hint-- At least he seized upon the foremost wether-- And hugged and lugged and tugged him neck and crop Just nolens volens through the open shop-- If tails come off he didn't care a feather-- Then walking to the door, and smiling grim, He rubbed his forehead and his sleeve together-- "There!--I've CONciliated him!" Again--good-humoredly to end our quarrel-- (Good humor should prevail!) I'll fit you with a tale Whereto is tied a moral. Once on a time a certain English lass Was seized with symptoms of such deep decline, Cough, hectic flushes, every evil sign, That, as their wont is at such desperate pass, The doctors gave her over--to an ass. Accordingly, the grisly Shade to bilk, Each morn the patient quaffed a frothy bowl Of assinine new milk, Robbing a shaggy suckling of a foal Which got proportionably spare and skinny-- Meanwhile the neighbors cried "Poor Mary Ann! She can't get over it! she never can!" When lo! to prove each prophet was a ninny, The one that died was the poor wet-nurse Jenny. To aggravate the case, There were but two grown donkeys in the place; And, most unluckily for Eve's sick daughter, The other long-eared creature was a male, Who never in his life had given a pail Of milk, or even chalk and water. No matter: at the usual hour of eight Down trots a donkey to the wicket-gate, With Mister Simon Gubbins on his back-- "Your sarvant, Miss--a werry spring-like day-- Bad time for hasses, though! good lack! good lack! Jenny be dead, Miss--but I'ze brought ye Jack-- He doesn't give no milk--but he can bray."