Two merry wags, of Cockney land,
Well known at Rhodes's, in the Strand,
Where tavern wits choice puns let fly,
Resolved their dogs and guns to try.
Dress'd cap-a-pee, in sporting suit,
With jacket, belt, and net to boot,
Away they trudge to Hampstead Rise,
To take the pheasants by surprise.
And what will strange appear, though true,
A poor stray'd cock-bird came in view,
Uprising 'tween the punning elves,
Who miss'd the bird, but shot themselves.
Condoling on their hapless gunning,
They yet could not desist from punning:
"Ne'er mind, Tom, peasants each we've hit."
"Why leave the aitch, Ned, out of it?"
"Because," quoth Ned, "I'd fain forget
The aitch that frets my body yet."
"Still pop for pop," quoth Tom again.
Says Ned, "I feel a shooting pain;
But then I've heard, those who aspire
To be good sportsmen must stand fire."
"Agreed," cries Tom, "and in my head
'Tis now engraved in molten lead."
By Bernard Blackmantle.
ON SIR THOMAS MORE, LORD CHANCELLOR OF ENGLAND.
When More had few years Chancellor been,
No more suits did remain;
The like shall never more be seen,
Till More be there again!
R.B. SHERIDAN'S EPIGRAM ON PITT.