PUBLIC INGRATITUDE, Having Reserved that Article for Himself. N. B.--To be disposed of, A large Quantity of Patent Dark Lanterns, and the best Price will be given for a set of Fellows who will go through thick and thin for a rotten back staircase. Huzza for Prerogative! A Fig for the Constitution! It was then discovered--or alleged, which came to the same thing--that Sir Cecil had married his own housemaid. The following not very brilliant epigram is written “on Sir Cecil proposing a tax on Maid Servants after having married his own”: When Cecil first the plan laid down, Poor servant girls to curse. He looked at home, and took his own For better and for worse. The Chelsea business provoked a more worthy effusion: And will you turn us out of doors, In age, to want a prey-- When cold winds blow and tempest roars? Oh! Hard Sir Cecil Wray! This house our haven is, and port After a stormy sea: Then shall it be cast down in sport, By hard Sir Cecil Wray? ’Twill break our heart these scenes to leave, But soldiers must obey; Yet in my conscience I believe You’re mad, Sir Cecil Wray. For who will see us poor and lame, Exposed on the highway, And not with curses load the name Of thee, Sir Cecil Wray? These walls can talk of Minden’s plain, Of England’s proudest day: I think I hear these walls complain Of thee, Sir Cecil Wray. If thou art bent the poor to harm, Attack the young and gay: Girls both in health and beauty warm,-- But we are old, Sir Wray. But Sir Cecil Wray had once published a volume of poems. Perhaps the crudest stroke of all--if the poor man had the sensitive nature of most poets--must have been certain parodies of these verses. Here are some. The notes are, of course, part of the parody. ON CELIA KILLING A FLEA. Thou great epitome of little death, all hail! How blest thy fate beneath my Celia’s lovely nail! No more thou’lt skip from sheet to sheet alive and well, The furious nail and finger toll’d thy passing bell. N. B.--The allusion to the noise made by the animal’s sudden death is beautifully descriptive of a passing bell. ON A BLACK SOW WITH A LITTER OF THIRTEEN PIGS. To the head of that sow, what a back, chine,[7] and tail![8] Here, John, bring to Porkey[9] some milk and some meal. Desire your mistress and Patty[10] my cousin Come look at the mother and her baker’s dozen.[11] How sweet is the smell of the straw in her stye![12] It’s a mixture of oaten, and wheaten, and rye. What an eye has this fat little creature, indeed! But no wonder at that, ’tis the true Chinese Breed.[13] * * * * *