And ah! the Wind, at Heav’n’s behest Changed from the East into the West, Alas! for Albert Gore, His Countenance, his glaring Eye, His Nose outspread, his Mouth awry Were set to turn no more. Oh! what a Warning this should be For every little Child to see, For all from Albert run. The Author of his own Disgrace, He weeps to think how wry a Face He’ll wear till Life is done. REVENGE When Ferdinand was sent to School It was his great delight To pause and plague the Village Fool ’Gainst whom he had a Spite. The poor afflicted Creature dwelt Alone, hard by a Wood, Forlorn and desolate he felt, Oft destitute of Food. But Ferdinand for him could feel No gentle Pity flow, Nor from his daily plenteous Meal Would e’en one Crumb bestow. [Illustration] From Vanity came all the Blame: How oft we may remark What fiercely burning Faults will flame From one small sinful Spark. One Sunday morning it had chanced, As to the Church he went, That Ferdinand around had glanced On Admiration bent. His Vest was frill’d, his Jacket too In Fashion’s last Conceit, His Nankeen Pants, of yellow hue, Scarce reach’d his Slippers neat. A tassell’d Cane swung in his Hand, He strutted proudly by, His whole Demeanour a Demand For Wonder’s envious Eye. But oh! what Rage possess’d his Heart When laughter caught his Ear, What Pangs of Anger, like a Dart, Pierc’d him at every Jeer. What did he see? with mincing Tread The Idiot walked behind, And aped his Gestures, wagged his Head And smiled with vacant Mind. A clumsy Bludgeon took the place Of Ferdinand’s smart Cane, And pert young Master’s easy Grace The poor Fool tried to feign. Though Weeks had pass’d, and all should strive Offences to forget, Ferdinand’s Soul could but derive Fresh Cause to fume and fret. An evil Thought one Morning leapt Into his jaundic’d Mind, And with a Saw he stealthy crept To where the Stream did wind. And through and through he sawed the Plank That bridg’d the Waters’ play, Then ’neath a Bush upon the Bank Concealed and still he lay. The Idiot came, he took one Stride, Fell through, and Heels o’er Head He sank, and loud for Help he cried, But guilty Ferd’nand fled. Now had the wicked Boy returned And straight confest his Crime The guilt of Murder, he had learned, Had not been his this Time. Attracted by the Idiot’s Roars, At his sad Plight appalled, His dripping Body to the Shores A Passer-by had hauled. But Ferdinand ran off to Sea And fought great Bonaparte; He perish’d soon, by Fate’s Decree, And broke his Mother’s Heart. [Illustration] UNSUITABLE JESTING