Ash. Turn out Henry! I vow I should'nt knaw how to zet about it-I should not, indeed, zur.

Sir Phil. You hear my determination. If you disobey, you know what will follow. I'll leave you to reflect on it. [Exit. Ash. Well, zur, I'll argufy the topic, and then you may wait upon me, and I'll tell ye. (Makes the motion of turning out)-I should be deadly awkward at it vor zartin-however, I'll put the case. Well, I goes whiztling whoam-noa, drabbit it, I should'nt be able to whiztle a bit, I'm zure. Well, I goes whoam, and I sees Henry zitting by my wife, mixing up someit to comfort the wold zool, and take away the pain of her rheumatics. Very well, then Henry places a chair vor I by the vire side, and zays-" Varmer, the horses be fed, the sheep be folded, and you have nothing to do but zit down, smoke your pipe, and be happy !" Very well, (becomes affected) then I zays-" Henry, you be poor and friendless, zo you must turn out of my houze directly." Very well, then my wife stares at I— reaches her hand towards the vire place, and throws the poker at my head. Very well, then Henry gives a kind of aguish shake, and getting up, sighs from the bottom of his heart-then holding up his head like a king, says—“ Varmer, I have too long been a burthen to you-Heaven protect you as you have me. Farewell! I go." Then says, "If thee does, I'll be domn'd." (with great energy.) Hollo! you Mister Sir Philip! you may come in.

[Enter Sir Philip Blandford. Zur, I have argufied the topic, and it wou'dn't be pratty-zo can't.

Sir Phil. Can't! absurd!

Ash. Well, zur, there is but another word-I won't. Sir Phil. Indeed!

Ash. No, zur, I won't; I'd zee myself hang'd first, and you too, zur-I would indeed (bowing). Sir Phil. You refuse then to obey.

Ash. I do, zur-at your zarvice (bowing).
Sir Phil. Then the law must take its course.

Ash. I be zorry for that too--I be, indeed, zur ; but if corn wou'dn't grow, I cou'dn't help it; it wer'n't poison'd by the hand that zow'd it. Thic hand, zir, be as free from guilt as your own.

Sir Phil. Oh! (sighing deeply.)

Ash. It were never held out to clinch a hard bargain, nor will it turn a good lad out into the wicked world, because he be poorish a bit. I be sorry you be offended, zur, quite-but come what wool, I'll never hit thic hand against here, but when I be zure that someit at inzide will jump against it with pleasure (bowing). I do hope you'll repent of all your zinsI do, indeed, zur; and if you shou'd, I'll come and see you again as friendly as ever-I wool, indeed, zur. Sir Phil. Your repentance will come too late.

[Exit. Ash. Thank ye, zur-good morning to you-I do hope I have made myzel agreeable-and so I'll go whoam.

DOUGLAS TO LORD RANDOLF.

[Exit.

My name is Norval: on the Grampian hills
My father feeds his flock; a frugal swain,
Whose only care was to increase his store,
And keep his only son, myself, at home.
For I had heard of battles, and I long'd
To follow to the field some warlike lord;
And Heaven soon granted what my sire denied.
Yon moon, which rose last night round as my shield,
Had not yet fill'd her horns, when, by her light,
A band of fierce barbarians from the hills
Rush'd like a torrent down upon the vale,
Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds fied
For safety and for succour: I alone,

With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows,
Hover'd about the enemy, and mark'd
The road he took; then hasted to my friends,
Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men,
I met advancing. The pursuit I led,
And soon o'ertook the spoil-encumber'd foe.

We fought, and conquer'd. Ere a sword was drawn,
An arrow from my bow had pierced their chief,
Who wore that day the arms which now I wear.
Returning home in triumph, I disdain'd

The shepherd's slothful life; and having heard
That our good king had summon'd his bold peers
To lead their warriors to the Carron's side,
I left my father's house, and took with me
A chosen servant to conduct my steps-

Yon trembling coward, who forsook his master!
Journeying with this intent, I pass'd these towers,
And, Heaven-directed, came this day to do
The happy deed that gilds my humble name.

THE DOCTOR AND FRENCHMAN.

At Westminster school, that so long has been famous
For "As in præsenti," and "Propria quæ maribus;"
Where to learn Greek and Latin none ever could fail-
If not knock'd in at the head, 'twould be at the tail.
Derry down, &c.

Old Busby, a breach of good manners for healing,
Would plant in the breech a sense of true feeling;
Whate'er the mishap, or howe'er the disaster,
With birch gave a sort of cantharides plaster.

One day, as the Doctor on rostrum was seated,
With a thick shower of stones the window was greeted,
Which were thrown by a youngster in frolicsome gig,
And the glass like a frost look'd on old Busby's wig.

The culprit, who well understood what would follow,
To a Frenchman as passing most loudly did halloo;
And, by way of precaution to save his own bones,
In Monsieur's coat pocket slipp'd a handful of stones.

The old Doctor, enraged, order'd ev'ry one in,
And swore that the back of the miscreant he'd skin;
And the Frenchman, who just was about off to hop,
Was surrounded, and push'd in the hall neck and crop.

"Sare! vat you mean by Gar, you break all my bones!"

"Ah, ah! said the youngster, "'twas you threw the stones."

"Sare, you be von grand liar, no stone habe I got:" But the stones in his pocket decided his lot.

"Take him up!" cried old Busby; "by old Mother Church,

"His posteriors shall suffer, so bring me the birch !"
And so well did the Doctor his promise perform,
That the Frenchman roar'd out like a pig in a storm.
"Sare, for vat you do this? vy you cutte me so?
"You shall pay well for this, or, by Gar, I vill know?”
While the doctor kept wielding his large mutton fist,
Like an eel in a frying-pan poor Monsieur did twist.

At length, being released, to a tavern he flew,
For revenge was determined on what he would do;
He was offer'd a chair, as he enter'd the door,-
"Non! I dare not take dat, my romp be so sore !"

With pen, ink, and paper, he soon was supplied, When a challenge he wrote, then "Here vaiter!" he cried,

"Take dis letter, bring answer, and den you shall see "Me kill dis dam doctor, vat dey call de Busbee !"

An hour pass'd by, when the waiter came in, And he look'd at Monsieur with a horrible grin: "Vell, for me vot you got? vy look you so shocking?" "For you, why I got a most terrible flogging !"

"Got dam dis old Doctor! he strange fellow! parbleu ! "He has floggee you, eh? vy, he floggee me too! "And I give you great leave to call me von grand fool, "If I e'er go again near dat dam Vestminster school!"

POCKETING A WATCH.

He that a watch would carry, this must do,--
Pocket his watch, and watch his pocket too.

THE HEADSMAN OF ALGIERS.

AN ENGLISH TRAVELLER'S TALE.

That Britons in the marvellous delight,
I've often heard-but still can scarce believe
A true-born Englishman will tell a lie:
And when a braggart Frenchman thus accuses
My countrymen, and says that half our news is
Manufactured through our love of bouncing,
It makes me grieve

To think I've not the power of trouncing
The knave, who is not worth a grave reply:-
In short, just then I always long to fight;
This is true British feeling-those who doubt it
Are base-born mongrels, and know nought about it.
In truth, we English all the world excel

In deeds of arms; but as for feats of skill,
No others can perform them half so well-
'Twas always so of old, and so 'tis still.
This brings me to my story,

Which, after what I've prefaced, none will doubt.
Or if they do, I trust they'll hear it out-
It tends to England's glory.

In Algiers three Christian slaves lay bound
Within a dungeon's gloom,

Waiting in dread suspence for that dire sound
Which should proclaim their doom!
Three different nations did the captives own:
A Spaniard one, and one from Gallia sprung,
The other was a Briton-ardent, young-

My noble worthy friend, his name Tom Brown,
A fellow who's an honour to his nation:

H

From whose veracious lips I had the whole narration. Said Tom, "They have a custom in Algiers

"Of chopping people's heads off who offend: "They care not for entreaties, pray'rs, or tears— "Almost before a culprit's crime appears, "The sharp-edged sabre brings him to his end.