I was in Margate last July, I walk'd upon the pier,
I saw a little vulgar Boy—I said "What make you here?—
The gloom upon your youthful cheek speaks any thing but joy;"
Again I said, "What make you here, you little vulgar Boy?"

He frown'd, that little vulgar Boy—he deem'd I meant to scoff:
And when the little heart is big, a little "sets it off";
He put his finger in his mouth, his little bosom rose,—
He had no little handkerchief to wipe his little nose!
"Hark! don't you hear, my little man?—it's striking nine," I said,
"An hour when all good little boys and girls should be in bed.
Run home and get your supper, else your Ma' will scold—Oh! fie!—
It's very wrong indeed for little boys to stand and cry!"
The tear-drop in his little eye again began to spring,
His bosom throbb'd with agony—he cried like any thing!
I stoop'd, and thus amidst his sobs I heard him murmur—"Ah
I haven't got no supper! and I haven't got no Ma'!!—
"My father, he is on the seas,—my mother's dead and gone!
And I am here, on this here pier, to roam the world alone;
I have not had, this live-long day, one drop to cheer my heart,
Nor 'brown' to buy a bit of bread with,—let alone a tart.
"If there's a soul will give me food, or find me in employ,
By day or night, then blow me tight!" (he was a vulgar Boy);
"And now I'm here, from this here pier it is my fixed intent
To jump, as Mr. Levi did from off the Monu-ment!"
"Cheer up! cheer up! my little man—cheer up!" I kindly said.
"You are a naughty boy to take such things into your head:
If you should jump from off the pier, you'd surely break your legs,
Perhaps your neck—then Bogey'd have you, sure as eggs are eggs!
"Come home with me, my little man, come home with me and sup;
My landlady is Mrs. Jones—we must not keep her up—
There's roast potatoes on the fire,—enough for me and you—
Come home,—you little vulgar Boy—I lodge at Number 2."
I took him home to Number 2, the house beside "The Foy,"
I bade him wipe his dirty shoes,—that little vulgar Boy,—
And then I said to Mistress Jones, the kindest of her sex,
"Pray be so good as go and fetch a pint of double X!"
But Mrs. Jones was rather cross, she made a little noise,
She said she "did not like to wait on little vulgar Boys."
She with her apron wiped the plates, and, as she rubb'd the delf,
Said I might "go to Jericho, and fetch my beer myself!"
I did not go to Jericho—I went to Mr. Cobb—
I changed a shilling—(which in town the people call "a Bob")—
It was not so much for myself as for that vulgar child—
And I said, "A pint of double X, and please to draw it mild!"
When I came back I gazed about—I gazed on stool and chair—
I could not see my little friend—because he was not there!
I peep'd beneath the table-cloth—beneath the sofa too—
I said "You little vulgar Boy! why what's become of you?"
I could not see my table-spoons—I look'd, but could not see
The little fiddle-pattern'd ones I use when I'm at tea;
—I could not see my sugar-tongs—my silver watch—oh, dear!
I know 'twas on the mantle-piece when I went out for beer.
I could not see my Mackintosh!—it was not to be seen!
Nor yet my best white beaver hat, broad-brimm'd and lined with green;
My carpet-bag—my cruet-stand, that holds my sauce and soy,—
My roast potatoes!—all are gone!—and so's that vulgar Boy!

I rang the bell for Mrs. Jones, for she was down below,
"—Oh, Mrs. Jones! what do you think?—ain't this a pretty go?
—That horrid little vulgar Boy whom I brought here to-night,
—He's stolen my things and run away!!"—Says she, "And sarve you right!!" Next morning I was up betimes—I sent the Crier round,
All with his bell and gold-laced hat, to say I'd give a pound
To find that little vulgar Boy, who'd gone and used me so;
But when the Crier cried "O Yes!" the people cried, "O No!"
I went to "Jarvis' Landing-place," the glory of the town,
There was a common sailor-man a-walking up and down;
I told my tale—he seem'd to think I'd not been treated well,
And called me "Poor old Buffer!" what that means I cannot tell.
That sailor-man, he said he'd seen that morning on the shore,
A son of—something—'twas a name I'd never heard before,
A little "gallows-looking chap"—dear me; what could he mean?
With a "carpet-swab" and "muckingtogs," and a hat turned up with green.
He spoke about his "precious eyes," and said he'd seen him "sheer,"
—It's very odd that sailor-men should talk so very queer—
And then he hitch'd his trowsers up, as is, I'm told, their use,
—It's very odd that sailor-men should wear those things so loose.
I did not understand him well, but think he meant to say
He'd seen that little vulgar Boy, that morning swim away
In Captain Large's Royal George about an hour before,
And they were now, as he supposed, "somewheres" about the Nore.
A landsman said, "I twig the chap—he's been upon the Mill—
And 'cause he gammons so the flats, ve calls him Veeping Bill!"
He said "he'd done me wery brown," and "nicely stow'd the swag."
—That's French, I fancy, for a hat—or else a carpet-bag.
I went and told the constable my property to track;
He asked me if "I did not wish that I might get it back?"
I answered, "To be sure I do!—it's what I come about."
He smiled and said, "Sir, does your mother know that you are out?"
Not knowing what to do, I thought I'd hasten back to town,
And beg our own Lord Mayor to catch the Boy who'd "done me brown."
His Lordship very kindly said he'd try and find him out,
But he "rather thought that there were several vulgar boys about."
He sent for Mr. Whithair then, and I described "the swag,"
My Mackintosh, my sugar-tongs, my spoons, and carpet-bag;
He promised that the New Police should all their powers employ;
But never to this hour have I beheld that vulgar Boy!
MORAL Remember, then, what when a boy I've heard my Grandma' tell,
"Be warn'd in time by others' harm, and you shall do full well!"
Don't link yourself with vulgar folks, who've got no fix'd abode,
Tell lies, use naughty words, and say they "wish they may be blow'd!"

Don't take too much of double X!—and don't at night go out
To fetch your beer yourself, but make the pot-boy bring your stout!
And when you go to Margate next, just stop and ring the bell,
Give my respects to Mrs. Jones, and say I'm pretty well!
Richard Harris Barham.

THE GOUTY MERCHANT AND THE STRANGER

In Broad Street Buildings on a winter night,
Snug by his parlor-fire a gouty wight
Sat all alone, with one hand rubbing
His feet, rolled up in fleecy hose:
While t'other held beneath his nose
The Public Ledger, in whose columns grubbing,
He noted all the sales of hops,
Ships, shops, and slops;
Gum, galls, and groceries; ginger, gin,
Tar, tallow, turmeric, turpentine, and tin;
When lo! a decent personage in black
Entered and most politely said:
"Your footman, sir, has gone his nightly track
To the King's Head,
And left your door ajar; which I
Observed in passing by,
And thought it neighborly to give you notice."
"Ten thousand thanks; how very few get,
In time of danger,
Such kind attentions from a stranger!
Assuredly, that fellow's throat is
Doomed to a final drop at Newgate:
He knows, too (the unconscionable elf!),
That there's no soul at home except myself."
"Indeed," replied the stranger (looking grave),
"Then he's a double knave;
He knows that rogues and thieves by scores
Nightly beset unguarded doors:
And see, how easily might one
Of these domestic foes,
Even beneath your very nose,
Perform his knavish tricks;
Enter your room, as I have done,
Blow out your candles—thus—and thus—
Pocket your silver candlesticks,
And—walk off—thus!"—
So said, so done; he made no more remark
Nor waited for replies,
But marched off with his prize,
Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark.
Horace Smith.

THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN

SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE INTENDED AND CAME SAFE HOME AGAIN

John Gilpin was a citizen of credit and renown;
A train-band captain eke was he, of famous London town.
John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear—"Though wedded we have been
These twice ten tedious years, yet we no holiday have seen.
"To-morrow is our wedding-day, and we will then repair
Unto the Bell at Edmonton all in a chaise and pair.
"My sister, and my sister's child, myself, and children three,
Will fill the chaise; so you must ride on horseback after we."
He soon replied, "I do admire of womankind but one,
And you are she, my dearest dear; therefore it shall be done.
"I am a linendraper bold, as all the world doth know;
And my good friend, the calender, will lend his horse to go."

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said; and, for that wine is dear,
We will be furnished with our own, which is both bright and clear."
John Gilpin kissed his loving wife; o'erjoyed was he to find
That, though on pleasure she was bent, she had a frugal mind.
The morning came, the chaise was brought, but yet was not allowed
To drive up to the door, lest all should say that she was proud.
So three doors off the chaise was stayed, where they did all get in—
Six precious souls, and all agog to dash through thick and thin.
Smack went the whip, round went the wheels—were never folks so glad;
The stones did rattle underneath, as if Cheapside were mad.
John Gilpin at his horse's side seized fast the flowing mane,
And up he got, in haste to ride—but soon came down again:
For saddletree scarce reached had he, his journey to begin,
When, turning round his head, he saw three customers come in.
So down he came: for loss of time, although it grieved him sore,
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, would trouble him much more.
'Twas long before the customers were suited to their mind;
When Betty, screaming, came down-stairs—"The wine is left behind!"

"Good lack!" quoth he—"yet bring it me, my leathern belt likewise,
In which I wear my trusty sword when I do exercise."
Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) had two stone bottles found,
To hold the liquor that she loved, and keep it safe and sound.
Each bottle had a curling ear, through which the belt he drew,
And hung a bottle on each side to make his balance true.
Then over all, that he might be equipped from top to toe,
His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, he manfully did throw.
Now see him mounted once again upon his nimble steed,
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, with caution and good heed.
But finding soon a smoother road beneath his well-shod feet,
The snorting beast began to trot, which galled him in his seat.
So, "Fair and softly," John he cried, but John he cried in vain;
That trot became a gallop soon, in spite of curb and rein.
So stooping down, as needs he must who cannot sit upright,
He grasped the mane with both his hands, and eke with all his might.
His horse, who never in that sort had handled been before,
What thing upon his back had got did wonder more and more.

Away went Gilpin, neck or nought; away went hat and wig;
He little dreamt, when he set out, of running such a rig.
The wind did blow—the cloak did fly, like streamer long and gay;
Till, loop and button failing both, at last it flew away.
Then might all people well discern the bottles he had slung—
A bottle swinging at each side, as hath been said or sung.
The dogs did bark, the children screamed, up flew the windows all;
And every soul cried out, "Well done!" as loud as he could bawl.
Away went Gilpin—who but he? His fame soon spread around—
"He carries weight! he rides a race! 'Tis for a thousand pound!"
And still as fast as he drew near, 'twas wonderful to view
How in a trice the turnpike men their gates wide open threw.
And now, as he went bowing down his reeking head full low,
The bottles twain behind his back were shattered at a blow.
Down ran the wine into the road, most piteous to be seen,
Which made his horse's flanks to smoke as they had basted been.
But still he seemed to carry weight, with leathern girdle braced;
For all might see the bottle necks still dangling at his waist.
Thus all through merry Islington these gambols did he play,
Until he came unto the Wash of Edmonton so gay;

And there he threw the wash about on both sides of the way,
Just like unto a trundling mop, or a wild goose at play.
At Edmonton his loving wife from the balcony spied
Her tender husband, wondering much to see how he did ride.
"Stop, stop, John Gilpin! here's the house," they all at once did cry;
"The dinner waits, and we are tired." Said Gilpin—"So am I!"
But yet his horse was not a whit inclined to tarry there;
For why?—his owner had a house full ten miles off, at Ware.
So like an arrow swift he flew, shot by an archer strong:
So did he fly—which brings me to the middle of my song.
Away went Gilpin out of breath, and sore against his will,
Till at his friend the calender's his horse at last stood still.
The calender, amazed to see his neighbor in such trim,
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, and thus accosted him:
"What news? what news? your tidings tell; tell me you must and shall—
Say why bareheaded you are come, or why you come at all?"
Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, and loved a timely joke;
And thus unto the calender in merry guise he spoke:
"I came because your horse would come; and, if I well forebode,
My hat and wig will soon be here, they are upon the road."
The calender, right glad to find his friend in merry pin,
Returned him not a single word, but to the house went in;

Whence straight he came with hat and wig: a wig that flowed behind,
A hat not much the worse for wear—each comedy in its kind.
He held them up, and in his turn thus showed his ready wit—
"My head is twice as big as yours, they therefore needs must fit.
"But let me scrape the dirt away that hangs upon your face,
And stop and eat, for well you may be in a hungry case."
Said John, "It is my wedding-day, and all the world would stare,
If wife should dine at Edmonton, and I should dine at Ware."
So, turning to his horse, he said, "I am in haste to dine;
'Twas for your pleasure you came here—you shall go back for mine."
Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast, for which he paid full dear!
For, while he spake, a braying ass did sing most loud and clear;
Whereat his horse did snort, as he had heard a lion roar,
And galloped off with all his might, as he had done before.
Away went Gilpin, and away went Gilpin's hat and wig:
He lost them sooner than at first, for why?—they were too big.
Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw her husband posting down
Into the country far away, she pulled out half a crown;

And thus unto the youth she said, that drove them to the Bell,
"This shall be yours when you bring back my husband safe and well."
The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain—
Whom in a trice he tried to stop, by catching at his rein;
But not performing what he meant, and gladly would have done,
The frighted steed he frighted more, and made him faster run.
Away went Gilpin, and away went post-boy at his heels,
The post-boy's horse right glad to miss the lumbering of the wheels.
Six gentlemen upon the road, thus seeing Gilpin fly,
With post-boy scampering in the rear, they raised the hue and cry:
"Stop thief! stop thief!—a highwayman!" Not one of them was mute;
And all and each that passed that way did join in the pursuit.
And now the turnpike gates again flew open in short space;
The tollmen thinking, as before, that Gilpin rode a race.
And so he did, and won it, too, for he got first to town;
Nor stopped till where he had got up he did again get down.
Now let us sing, long live the king! and Gilpin, long live he;
And when he next doth ride abroad, may I be there to see!
William Cowper.

PADDY O'RAFTHER