A wag, who "will be the death of us," says he bought a cake the other evening:—"It is thundering weight," observed the baker: "I hope it will not lighten before I get it home," was the equivocal reply.
Q.
IMPROMPTU
On hearing a Watchman cry the hour on Tuesday morning, September 29, the last of his duty.
"Farewell! mine occupation's gone,"
He sung in "half-past five;"
Here ends his call, his beat is done,
How then can he survive.
TOM.