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"I have but a brace," said bold Jim, "and they're spent, And I won't load again for a make-believe rent.' "Then," said Ephraim, producing his pistols, “just give My five hundred pounds back, or, as sure as you live, I'll make of your body a riddle or sieve.'

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Jim Barlow was diddled-and though he was game,
He saw Ephraim's pistol so deadly in aim,
That he gave up the gold, and he took to his scrapers,
And when the whole story got into the
papers,
They said that the thieves were no match for the
Quakers.

MODERN LOGIC.

AN Eton stripling, training for the Law,
A Dunce at Syntax, but a Dab at Taw,
One happy Christmas, laid upon the shelf
His cap, his gown, and store of learned pelf,
With all the deathless bards of Greece and Rome,
To spend a fortnight at his uncle's home.
Arrived, and past the usual "How d'ye do's?"
Inquiries of old friends, and College news-

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Well, Tom, the road, what saw you worth discerning,

And how goes study, boy-what is't you're learning?" Oh, Logic, Sir-but not the worn-out rules

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Of Locke and Bacon-antiquated fools!

"Tis wit and wranglers' Logic-thus, d'ye see, I'll prove to you, as clear as A, B, C,

That an eel-pie's a pigeon :-to deny it,

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Were to swear black's white.' -"Indeed !"—"Let's try it.

An eel-pie is a pie of fish."-" Agreed!"

"A fish-pie may be a Jack-pie."-" Well, proceed.' "A Jack-pie must be a John-pie-thus, 'tis done, For every John-pie must be a pi-ge-on !"

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"Bravo!" Sir Peter cries, "Logic for ever!
It beats my grandmother-and she was clever!
But zounds, my boy-it surely would be hard,
That wit and learning should have no reward!
To-morrow, for a stroll, the park we'll cross,
And then I'll give you

horse."

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"What?"-" My chestnut

A horse!" cries Tom, "blood, pedigree, and paces! O, what a dash I'll cut at Epsom races!"

He went to bed, and wept for downright sorrow
To think the night must pass before the morrow;
Dreamed of his boots, his cap, his spurs, and leather
breeches,

Of leaping five-barred gates, and crossing ditches;
Left his warm bed an hour before the lark,

And dragged his Uncle, fasting, through the park :-
Each craggy hill and dale in vain they cross,
To find out something like a chestnut horse:
But no such animal the meadows cropped:
At length, beneath a tree, Sir Peter stopped;
Took a bough-then shook it—and down fell
A fine horse-chestnut in its prickly shell-
"There, Tom, take that,"" Well, Sir, and what
beside ?"

Why, since you're booted, saddle it and ride!"
"Ride what?-a chestnut !" "Ay; come, get across.
I tell you, Tom, the chestnut is a horse,
And all the horse you'll get; for I can show,
As clear as sunshine, that 'tis really so-
Not by the musty, fusty, worn-out rules
Of Locke and Bacon-addle-headed fools!
All Logic but the wranglers' I disown,
And stick to one sound argument-your own.
Since you have proved to me, I don't deny,
That a pie-John's the same as a John-pie;
What follows then, but as a thing of course,
That a horse-chestnut is a chestnut-horse ?”

THE JESTER CONDEMned to DEATH.

HORACE SMITH.

ONE of the Kings of Scanderoon,
A Royal Jester,

Had in his train a gross buffoon,
Who used to pester

The Court with tricks inopportune,
Venting on the highest folk his
Scurvy pleasantries and hoaxes.

It needs some sense to play the fool,
Which wholesome rule

Occurred not to our jackanapes,
Who consequently found his freaks
Led to innumerable scrapes,
And quite as many kicks and tweaks,
Which only seemed to make him faster
Try the patience of his master.

Some sin, at last, beyond all measure,
Incurred the desperate displeasure
Of his serene and raging highness:
Whether he twitched his most revered
And sacred beard,

Or had intruded on the shyness
Of the Seraglio, or let fly

An epigram at royalty,

None knows his sin was an occult one,
But records tell us that the Sultan,
Meaning to terrify the knave,

Exclaimed-""Tis time to stop that breath,
Thy doom is sealed: presumptuous slave!
Thou stand'st condemned to certain death.

Silence, base rebel! no replying!
But such is my indulgence still,
That, of my own free grace and will,
I leave to thee the mode of dying."

"Thy royal will be done-'tis just,"
Replied the wretch, and kissed the dust;
Since, my last moments to assuage,
Your Majesty's humane decree

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Has deigned to leave the choice to me,
I'll die, so please you, of old age!"

THE RIVAL BROOM MAKERS.

DR. JOHN WOLCOTT.

(PETER PINDAR.)

A THIEVING fellow, naturally sly,

Cheaper than all the world," his wares would cry, And on a jackass' back such bargains brought 'em ; All sized and sorted town-made brooms,

For sweeping stables, gardens, hearths, or rooms,
So cheap! as quite astonished all who bought 'em!
Thus, for a while, he drove a roaring trade,
And wisely thought a pretty purse to have made,
When on a dismal day at every door,

Where oft he'd sold his dog-cheap goods before,
With freezing looks, his customers all told him,
Another broom-monger they'd found,

That travelled far and wide the country round,
And in all sorts and sizes, under-sold him.

Scratching his wig he left 'em, musing deep, With knitted brows-up to his ears in thought, To guess, where in the deuce could brooms be bought, That any mortal man could sell so cheap.

When lo! as through the street he slowly passes,
A voice as clear as raven's, owl's, or ass's,

And just as musical, rung in his ears, like thunder,
(Half-splitting his thick head, and wig crammed full
of wonder,)

With roaring out "Cheap brooms!" O'erjoyed he meets
His brother brush, and thus the rascal greets :-
"How, how the deuce, brother rogue, do I
Hear my old friends sing out a general cry
That I'm a knave? then growl like bears, and tell me,
That you do more,

Than all the world could ever do before,

And, in this self-same broom-trade undersell me.
I always thought I sold 'em cheap enough,
And well I might—for why?

("Twixt you and I,)

I own, I now and then have stole the stuff!" "Ah!" (quoth his brother thief, a dog far deeper) "I see, my boy, you haven't half learnt your trade, I go a cheaper way to work than that." "A cheaper?" Why, ah-I always steal mine ready made."

ONCE (says an author, where, I need not say),
Two travellers found an oyster in their way;
Both fierce, both hungry, the dispute grew strong,
While, scale in hand, dame Justice passed along;
Before her each with clamour pleads the laws,
Explains the matter, and would win the cause.
Dame Justice, weighing long the doubtful right,
Takes, opens, swallows it, before their sight.
The cause of strife removed so rarely well,
'There, take," says Justice, "take you each a shell.
We thrive at Westminster on fools like you;
"Twas a fat oyster, live in peace-adieu.

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POPE.

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