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Now I've gone through all the village-ay, from
end to end, save and except one more house, But I haven't come to that-and I hope I never shall-and that's the village poor-house!
MEN once were surnamed for their shape or estate (You all may from history worm it),
There was Louis the Bulky, and Henry the Great, John Lackland, and Peter the Hermit:
But now, when the door-plates of misters and dames
Are read, each so constantly varies;
From the owner's trade, figure, and calling,
Seem given by the rule of contraries.
Mr. Wise is a dunce, Mr. King is a whig,
At Bath, where the feeble go more than the stout (A conduct well worthy of Nero),
Over poor Mr. Lightfoot, confined with the gout, Mr. Heavyside danced a bolero.
Miss Joy, wretched maid, when she chose Mr. Love,
She now holds in wedlock, as true as a dove,
Mr. Oldcastle dwells in a modern-built hut;
Old Mr. Younghusband's the starchest.
Mr. Child, in a passion, knock'd down Mr. Rock; Mr. Stone like an aspen-leaf shivers ;
Miss Poole used to dance, but she stands like a stock
Ever since she became Mrs. Rivers.
Mr. Swift hobbles onward, no mortal knows how,
He moves as though cords had entwined him;
Mr. Barker's as mute as a fish in the sea,
Mr. Penny, whose father was rolling in wealth,
Mr. Cruikshank stept into three thousand a year
Now I hope you'll acknowledge I've made it quite
Surnames ever go by contrarics.
The Old Man in the
THERE was an old man who liv'd in a wood,
As you shall plainly see,
He thought he could do more work in one day Than his wife could do in three.
"With all my heart," the old woman said,
"And if you will allow,
You shall stay at home to-day,
And you must milk Tiny the cow,
And you must feed the little pigs
That are within the sty;
"And you must watch the speckled hen,
Lest she should go astray;
Not forgetting the spool of yarn
That I spin every day.”
The old woman took her stick in her hand,
But Tiny she winced, and Tiny she flinch'd, And Tiny she toss'd her nose;
And Tiny gave him a kick on the shin,
Till the blood ran down to his toes.
And a "Ho, Tiny!" and a "Lo, Tiny!"
And then he went to feed the pigs
He knock'd his nose against the shed,
And then he watch'd the speckled hen,
But he quite forgot the spool of yarn
And when the old woman came home at night,
That his wife could do more work in a day
Than he could do in three.
And when he saw how well she plough'd,
And made the furrows even,
Said his wife could do more work in a day
King John and the Abbot.
PART THE FIRST.
AN ancient story Ile tell you anon
Of a notable prince, that was called King John; And he ruled England with maine and with might, For he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right
And Ile tell you a story, a story so merrye,
An hundred men the king did heare say,
“How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee,
"My liege," quo' the abbot, "would it were knowne,
I spend not a piece, but what is my owne;
"Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is high,
"And first," quo' the king, "when I'm in this stead,
With my crowne of golde so faire on my head,
Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,
Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.
'Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt,
How soone I may ride the whole world about.