Know'st thou not "mercy is not strain'd, But droppeth as the gentle dew," And while it blesseth him who gain'd, It blesseth him who gave it too?
Say, what art thou? and what is he, Pale victim of despair and pain, Whose streaming eyes and bended knee Sue to thee thus—and sue in vain?
Cold, callous man!—he scorns to yield, Or aught relax his felon gripe, But answers, "I'm Inspector Field! And this here Warmint's prigg'd your wipe!"
[JERRY JARVIS'S WIG.]
A LEGEND OF THE WEALD OF KENT.
"The wig's the thing! the wig! the wig."—Old Song.
"Joe," said old Jarvis, looking out of his window,—it was his ground-floor back,—"Joe, you seem to be very hot, Joe,—and you have got no wig!"
"Yes, sir," quoth Joseph, pausing, and resting upon his spade, "it's as hot a day as ever I see; but the celery must be got in, or there'll be no autumn crop, and—"