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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,
Mr. Coffin's uncommonly sprightly,
And huge Mr. Little broke down in a gig
While driving fat Mrs. Golightly.

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,
Found nothing but sorrow await her;

She now holds in wedlock, as true as a dove,
That fondest of mates, Mr. Hayter.

Mr. Oldcastle dwells in a modern-built hut;
Miss Sage is of madcaps the archest;
Of all the queer bachelors Cupid e'er cut,

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. Metcalf ran off upon meeting a cow,
With pale Mr. Turnbull behind him.

Mr. Barker's as mute as a fish in the sea,
Mr. Miles never moves on a journey,
Mr. Gotobed sits up till half-after three,
Mr. Makepeace was bred an attorney.
Mr. Gardener can't tell a flower from a root,
Mr. Wild with timidity draws back,
Mr. Ryder performs all his journeys on foot,
Mr. Foot all his journeys on horseback.

Mr. Penny, whose father was rolling in wealth,
Consumed all the fortune his dad won;
Large Mr. Le Fever's the picture of health;
Mr. Goodenough is but a bad one;

Mr. Cruikshank stept into three thousand a year
By showing his leg to an heiress:

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 I'll go follow the plough.

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And you must milk Tiny the cow,
Lest she should go a dry;

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,
And went to follow the plough;
The old man put the pail on his head,
And went to milk the cow.

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 a "Pretty little cow, stand still;"
And "If ever I milk you again," he said,
"It shall be against my will."

And then he went to feed the pigs
That were within the sty,

He knock'd his nose against the shed,
And made the blood to fly.

And then he watch'd the speckled hen,
Lest she should go astray,

But he quite forgot the spool of yarn
That his wife spun every day.

And when the old woman came home at night,
He said he could plainly see,

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
Than he could do in seven!

King John and the Abbot.


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,
Concerning the Abbot of Canterbùrye;
How for his house-keeping, and high renowne,
They rode poste for him to fair London towne.

An hundred men the king did heare say,
The abbot kept in his house every day ;
And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt,
In velvet coates waited the abbot about.

“How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee,
Thou keepest a farre better house than mee,
And for thy house-keeping and high renowne,
I feare thou work'st treason against my crown."

"My liege," quo' the abbot, "would it were knowne,

I spend not a piece, but what is my owne;
And I trust your grace will doe me no deere,
For spending of my owne true-gotten geere."

"Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is high,
And now for the same thou needest must dye;
For except thou canst answer me questions three,
Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.

"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.

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