"You bloody-minded dog!” cries one,
"To slit your windpipe were good fun,—
'Od blast you for an impious* son
Of a presbyterian w—re.

VII.

"You'd have him gore the parish-priest,
And run against the altar-

You fiend!" The sage his warnings ceased,
And north and south, and west and east,
Halloo! they follow the poor beast,
Mat, Dick, Tom, Bob, and Walter.

VIII.

Old Lewis, ('twas his evil day)
Stood trembling in his shoes;
The Ox was his-what could he say?
His legs were stiffened with dismay,
The Ox ran o'er him 'mid the fray,
And gave him his death's bruise.

IX.

The frighted beast ran on-but here,
(No tale, though in print, more true is)
My muse stops short in mid career—
Nay, gentle reader! do not sneer!
I cannot choose but drop a tear,
A tear for good old Lewis!

One of the many fine words which the most uneducated had about this time a constant opportunity of acquiring, from the sermons in the pulpit and the proclamations in the

corners.

X.

The frighted beast ran through the town;
All followed, boy and dad,
Bull-dog, parson, shopman, clown:

The publicans rushed from the Crown,
"Halloo! hamstring him! cut him down!"
They drove the poor Ox mad.

XI.

Should you a rat to madness teaze,
Why even a rat may plague you:
There's no philosopher but sees
That rage and fear are one disease-
Though that may burn and this may freeze,
They're both alike the ague.

XII.

And so this Ox, in frantic mood,
Faced round like any bull-

The mob turned tail, and he pursued,

Till they with heat and fright were stewed,

And not a chick of all this brood

But had his belly full.

XIII.

Old Nick's astride the beast, 'tis clear

Old Nicholas, to a tittle!

But all agree, he'd disappear,

Would but the parson venture near,

And through his teeth,* right o'er the steer,
Squirt out some fasting-spittle.

According to the superstition of the West-Countries, if you meet the Devil, you may either cut him in half with a straw, or force him to disappear by spitting over his horns

XIV.

Achilles was a warrior fleet,

The Trojans he could worryOur parson too was swift of feet,

But showed it chiefly in retreat;

The victor Ox scoured down the street,

The mob fled hurry-scurry.

XV.

Through gardens, lanes, and fields new ploughed,
Through his hedge, and through her hedge,
He plunged and tossed and bellowed loud,
Till in his madness he grew proud,

To see this helter-skelter crowd,

That had more wrath than courage.

XVI.

Alas! to mend the breaches wide
He made for these poor ninnies,
They all must work, whate'er betide,
Both days and months, and pay beside,
(Sad news for avarice and for pride)
A sight of golden guineas!

XVII.

But here once more to view did pop
The man that kept his senses;

And now he cried-" Stop, neighbours! stop;
The Ox is mad! I would not swop,
No! not a school-boy's farthing-top,
For all the parish-fences.

XVIII.

"The Ox is mad! Ho! Dick, Bob, Mat!" What means this coward fuss?

"Ho! stretch this rope across the plat"Twill trip him up-or if not that, Why, damme! we must lay him flatSee, here's my blunderbuss.

XIX.

"A lying dog! just now he said The Ox was only glad—

Let's break his presbyterian head!"

"Hush!" quoth the sage, "you've been misled; No quarrels now-let's all make headYou drove the poor Ox mad."

XX.

As thus I sat, in careless chat,

With the morning's wet newspaper,

In eager haste, without his hat,

As blind and blundering as a bat,
In came that fierce aristocrat,
Our pursy woollen-draper.

XXI.

And so my Muse perforce drew bit; And in he rushed and panted"Well, have you heard?" No, not a whit. "What, ha'nt you heard?" Come, out with it! "That TIERNEY votes for Mister Pitt,

And SHERIDAN's recanted!"

PARLIAMENTARY OSCILLATORS.

LMOST awake? Why, what is this, and whence,

O ye right loyal men, all undefiled?

Sure, 'tis not possible that common sense Has hitched her pullies to each heavy eye-lid?

Yet wherefore else that start, which discomposes
The drowsy waters lingering in your eye?
And are you really able to descry

That precipice three yards beyond your noses?

Yet flatter you I cannot, that your wit

Is much improved by this long loyal dosing; And I admire, no more than Mr. PITT,

Your jumps and starts of patriotic prosing—

Now cluttering to the treasury cluck, like chicken, Now with small beaks the ravenous bill opposing; With serpent-tongue now stinging, and now licking Now semi-sibilant, now smoothly glozing

Now having faith implicit that he can't err,
Hoping his hopes, alarmed with his alarms;

And now believing him a sly enchanter,

Yet still afraid to break his brittle charms,

Lest some mad Devil suddenly unhampering,
Slap-dash! the imp should fly off with the steeple,