He foams with censure, with applause he raves; The hasty gentleman, whose blood runs high; Observe the maiden, innocently sweet! CXXVII. THE COUNTRY BUMPKIN AND RAZOR SELLER.-P. Pindar. A fellow, in a market town, Most musical, cried razors up and down, And offered twelve for eighteen pence; Which, certainly seem'd wondrous cheap, And, for the money, quite a heap, That every man would buy, with cash and sense. A country bumpkin the great offer heard; Poor Hodge, who suffered by a broad black beard, That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose. No matter if the fellow be a knave, So home the clown, with his good fortune went, And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes. 'Twas a vile razor!-then the rest he try'd ;All were impostors. "Ah!" Hodge sighed, "I wish my eighteen-pence was in my purse." In vain, to chase his beard, and bring the graces, He cut and dug and whined and stamped and swore; Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed, and made wry faces, And cursed each razor's body, o'er and o'er. Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff; Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws, Not fit to scrape a hog!" Hodge sought the fellow-found him—and begunP'rhaps, Master Razor-rogue! to you 'tis fun 66 That people flay themselves out of their lives. "Friend," quoth the razor man, "I'm not a knave As for the razors you have bought,- Upon my soul, I never thought That they would shave.” "Not think they'd shave?" quoth Hodge, with wond'ring eyes, And voice not much unlike an Indian, yell, "What were they made for, then, you dog?" he cries. "Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile-" to sell." CXXVIII. THE GASCON PEASANT AND THE FLIES. At Neufchatel, in France, where they prepare Where they were made they were sold for the immense But as salt water made their charms increase, In England, the fixed rate was eighteen pence. This damsel had, to keep her in her farm, To milk her cows, and feed her hogs, In fact a gaby: And such a glutton when you came to feed him, (Vide the Ballad) scarcely could exceed him. One morn she had prepared a monstrous bowl And would'nt go to church (good careful soul) To watch it, while his mistress was to mass gone. Like my Lord Salisbury, he heaved a sigh, Each moment did his appetite grow stronger; At length he could not bear it any longer, And, finding that the coast was clear, he quaffed Scudding from church, the farmer's wife But stood aghast, and could not, for her life, Until she summoned breath enough to utter 'Holy St. Mary!" And shortly with a face of scarlet, The vixen (for she was a vixen) flew Asking the when, and where, and how, and who Had gulped her cream, nor left an atom? To which he made not separate replies, But with a look of excellent digestion, One answer made to every question, "The Flies." "The flies, you rogue !-the flies, you guttling dog! Behold your whiskers still are covered thickly; Thief! Liar! Villain! Gormandizer! Hog! I'll make you tell another story quickly." Who bore him to the Judge :-a little prig With angry bottle nose, Like a red-cabbage-rose, While lots of white ones flourish'd on his wig. Looking at once both stern and wise, Still the same dogged answers rise, "The Flies, my lord,-the flies, the flies." "Psha," quoth the Judge, half peevish, and half pompous, "Why you're non-compos;" You should have watched the bowl, as she desired, "What is it lawful then," the dolt inquired, That stole the cream; let me come near it.' And gratified a double grudge, For the same catapult completely smashed CXXIX. LODGINGS FOR SINGLE GENTLEMEN.-Colman. Who has e'er been in London, that overgrown place, Has seen "Lodgings to Let" stare him full in the face: |