A MAGPIE once was such a dunce,
That all the people said,
More bricks would lie in a fish’s eye,
Than learning in his head.
And though his mother herself did bother
And every trouble took,
Yet not one word could that dull bird
Repeat without his book.
Till once he saw a young jackdaw
Who dearly loved his letters;
Though not so much his taste was such,
As ’twas to ape his betters.
Howe’er this be the jackdaw he
Could tell a funny story;
And many a bird his prattle heard
And envied him his glory.
may emulate
eloquence;
But when he shew’d the wond’ring crowd
How he could spout and swell,
The Magpie tried for very pride
If he could do as well.
and, by
practice,
And every night by candlelight
He conn’d his lessons o’er,
And every morn with the herdsman’s horn
He rose and practised more.
learn to
speak with
fluency,
Full soon he thought himself well taught,
And then began to chatter:
And the careful dame, his mother, came
To see what was the matter.
plausibility,
Like Miller Peel he smiled a deal,
And cull’d the fairest diction;
And look’d quite true though well he knew
That every word was fiction.
and grimace, so as to satisfy
himself,—
Then to his nose he raised his toes,
And gravely look’d askew;
And thought himself a clever elf:—
And his mother thought so too.
and his mother,
“Caw, caw!” quoth she; “he sure must be
An orator or poet:
I’ll have him sent to Parliament,
That all the world may know it.”
—but not the
Commons
of England.
But though he shone so much alone,
And made his mother stare,
“The Members” swore he was a bore,
And had no business there.
Yet there he is, and there I wis,
He’s likely still to be;
As, should you call at Stephen’s hall,
Yourself may chance to see.
The Pigeon and the Hen, OR, THE PRIDE OF STATION.
Fortune
puffeth up
the heart,
A MILK-WHITE pigeon (records state)
Was wedded to a milk-white mate:
Nor envied prince nor potentate
This dainty dove,
While crouching to her lord she sate,
And coo’d her love.
to judge
others.
Indulged in all her heart’s desire
She felt no spark of lawless fire;
So plumed herself throughout the shire
A pattern wife:
And chid dame Partlet, as in ire,
For her loose life.
A scandal to our sex, I vow,
Those cackling ladies of the mow!
Or black, or red, or high, or low,
They have no care;
So he’s a Cock—’tis quite enow
For welcome there!
Dame Partlet heard, but felt no shame;
And let alone the vaunty dame,
To nurse her pride of wedded fame;
Herself content
That conscience whisper’d her no blame
Of evil bent.
A shot!—the dove—she knew the sound!
Her milk-white mate has ta’en a wound:
He languishes upon the ground:
His swimming eyes
Heed not his comrades hovering round:
He gasps—he dies.
Altered circumstances
Oh! what can stint a widow’s grief!
Our pattern wife defied relief:
No grain pick’d she, no sprouting leaf,
—As folks could see:
A pattern widow (to be brief)
She fain would be.
So trimly prinn’d she sat alone,
And lean’d her breast against a stone,
As one for ever woe-begone;
And would not coo:
No wonder that a suitor soon
Came down to woo.
A vulgar bluerock by my fay!
Without the gentle pouting way
Of him that died the other day:
Alas! he’s gone!
And sore it is for one to stay,
And live alone!
induce altered
feelings.
This bluerock press’d his suit so close,
Now strutting up upon his toes,
Now whispering something nose to nose,—
Our milk-white dove
Crouch’d to him, as the story goes,
And coo’d her love.
Few can afford
to indulge
a fine
taste, though
many may
have it.
Dame Partlet eyed the scene askaunt,
And spake:—The pamper’d few may vaunt
Their dainty taste o’er such as want;
But coarser bread
Is good enough to one who can’t
Get fine instead.
The Oyster and the Muscle, OR, THE USES OF ADVERSITY.
