"Oh, it never was meant that grim grimaces
"Should sour the cream of a creed of love;
"Or that fellows with long, disastrous faces,
"Alone should sit among cherubs above.

“Then hurrah for the Bishops, &c.

"For Sunday fun we never can fail,

"When the Church herself each sport points out;— "There's May-games, archery, Whitsun-ale,

"And a May-pole high to dance about.

"Or, should we be for a pole hard driven, "Some lengthy saint, of aspect fell,

"With his pockets on earth, and his nose in heaven, "Will do for a May-pole just as well

"Then hurrah for the Bishops, hurrah! hurrah! "A week of work and a Sabbath of play “Make the poor man's life run merry away.”

To Andy, who doesn't much deal in history,
This Sunday scene was a downright mystery;
And God knows where might have ended the joke,
But, in trying to stop the fiddles, he woke.
And the odd thing is (as the rumour goes)

That since that dream—which, one would suppose,

Should have made his godly stomach rise,
Even more than ever, 'gainst Sunday pies
He has view'd things quite with different eyes;
Is beginning to take, on matters divine,
Like Charles and his Bishops, the sporting line
Is all for Christians jigging in pairs,

As an interlude 'twixt Sunday prayers;
Nay, talks of getting Archbishop H-1-y
To bring in a Bill, enacting duly,
That all good Protestants, from this date,
May, freely and lawfully, recreate,

Of a Sunday eve, their spirits moody,

With Jack in the Straw, or Punch and Judy.

A BLUE LOVE-SONG.

TO MISS

Air. -"Come live with me and be my love."

COME Wed with me, and we will write,
My Blue of Blues, from morn till night.
Chased from our classic souls shall be
All thoughts of vulgar progeny;

And thou shalt walk through smiling rows
Of chubby duodecimos,

While I, to match thy products nearly,
Shall lie-in of a quarto yearly.

'Tis true, ev'n books entail some trouble;
But live productions give one double.
Correcting children is such bother,
While printers' dev'ls correct the other.
Just think, my own Malthusian dear,
How much more decent 'tis to hear

From male or female as it may be —

"How is your book?" than "How's your baby?"

And, whereas physic and wet nurses
Do much exhaust paternal purses,
Our books, if rickety, may go

And be well dry-nurs'd in the Row ;
And, when God wills to take them hence,
Are buried at the Row's expense.

Besides, (as 'tis well prov'd by thee,
In thy own Works, vol. 93.)

The march, just now, of population
So much outstrips all moderation,
That ev'n prolific herring-shoals
Keep pace not with our erring souls.*
Oh far more proper and well-bred

To stick to writing books instead;

And show the world how two Blue lovers
Can coalesce, like two book-covers,

(Sheep-skin, or calf, or such wise leather,)
Letter'd at back, and stitch'd together,
Fondly as first the binder fix'd 'em,

With nought but

literature betwixt 'em.

* See "Ella of Garveloch."-Garveloch being a place where there was a large herring-fishery, but where, as we are told by the author, "the people increased much faster than the produce."

SUNDAY ETHICS.

A SCOTCH ODE.

PUIR, profligate Londoners, having heard tell
That the De'il's got amang ye, and fearing 'tis true,
We ha' sent ye a mon wha's a match for his spell,
A chiel o' our ain, that the De'il himsel

Will be glad to keep clear of, one Andrew Agnew.

So, at least, ye may reckon, for ane day entire

In ilka lang week ye'll be tranquil eneugh,

As Auld Nick, do him justice, abhors a Scotch squire,

An' would sooner gae roast by his ain kitchen fire Than pass a hale Sunday wi' Andrew Agnew.

For, bless the gude mon, gin he had his ain way,
He'd na let a cat on the Sabbath 66
say mew;"
Nae birdie maun whistle, nae lambie maun play,
An' Phœbus himsel could na travel that day,

As he'd find a new Joshua in Andie Agnew.