Or Mr. P.!—the sire that nursed
Thy youth, and made thee what thou art,
Who form’d thy prying genius first—
(Thou wottest his untender part),
’Twould be a friendly call and fit,
To know “how soon he hopes to sit.”
Some people long to know the truth
Whether Miss T. does mean to try
For Gibbon once again—in sooth,
Thou mightst indulge them, Mr. Pry;
A verbal extract from the brief
Would give some spinsters great relief!
Suppose, dear Pry, thou wert to dodge
The porter’s glance, and just drop in
At Windsor’s shy sequester’d lodge,
(Thou wilt, if any man can win
His way so far)—and kindly bring
Poor Cob’s petition to the king.
There’s Mrs. Coutts—hath she outgrown
The compass of a prying eye?
And, ah! there is the Great Unknown,
A man that makes the curious sigh;
’Twere worthy of your genius quite
To bring that lurking man to light.
O, come abroad, with curious hat,
And patch’d umbrella, curious too—
To poke with this, and pry with that—
Search all our scandal through and through,
And treat the whole world like a pie
Made for thy finger, Mr. Pry!
ON STEAM.
BY AN UNDER-HOSTLER.
WISH I livd a Thowsen year Ago
Wurking for Sober six and Seven milers
And dubble Stages runnen safe and slo
The Orsis cum in Them days to the Bilers
But Now by means of Powers of Steam forces
A-turning Coches into Smoakey Kettels
The Bilers seam a Cumming to the Orses
And Helps and naggs Will sune be out of Vittels
Poor Bruits I wunder How we bee to Liv
When sutch a change of Orses is our Faits
No nothink need Be sifted in a Siv
May them Blowd ingins all Blow up their Grates
And Theaves of Oslers crib the Coles and Giv
Their blackgard Hannimuls a Feed of Slaits!