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5

INTRODUCTION.

I can't tell the story for truth, but 'tis said,
That the first Magic Lantern that ever was made,
Perplex'd the inventor extremely;
For houses, and people, and all that he shew'd,
In spite of his efforts, could only be view'd
Upside down, which was very unseemly!
At length out of patience, and quite in despair,
He thought the best way to pass off the affair,
Was to bring it at once to a sequel;
He therefore gave out he'd invented a shew,
So wonderful, magical, comic, and new,
As nothing in nature could equal.
6

The nobility, gentry, and public at large,
With alacrity paid the philosopher's charge,
And throng'd to his rare exhibition;
And nought could exceed the huzzas and encores,
As houses, and horses, and people, and doors,
With their feet in the air, and their heads on the floor,
Past by,—'twas so droll a position!
They said it was such an original thought,
That people of rank and intelligence, ought
To give it their full approbation;
So ladies and lords to the scholar repair'd,
And as the procession proceeded, declar'd,
It really surpass'd expectation!
At length a shrewd fellow from college that came,
Who envied, 'twas said, the philosopher's fame,
7

(As cross and conceited as could be),
Stole up to the sliders, and turning them round,
To the company's grief and dismay it was found,
That now, they were seen as they should be!
The tumult was dreadful,—the gentlemen rose,
And said they would see upside down, if they chose,
They came with no other intention;
And begg'd that, upon a philosopher's word,
He would not let any one be so absurd
Again, as to spoil his invention.
Now lest there may still be some pedant in town,
To laugh at this turning the world upside down,
With argument witty and weighty,
We've taken the trouble, at wonderful cost,
To copy the sliders (long thought to be lost),
And appeal to the whole literati.
A.
8

THE COOK COOKED.

A hare, who long had hung for dead,
But really brew'd sedition,
Once set a scheme on foot, and said,
She could not take it in her head,
That hares should be nutrition:
A turkey next began to speak,
But said her task was harder,
Because the cook had tucked her beak
Behind her wing, for half a week
That she'd been in the larder.
9

At length, with some ado she said,
That as for her opinion,
If any prudent plan were laid,
Her latest drop of blood should aid,
To rescue the dominion.
A murmur more than usual grave,
Then issued from an oyster,
Who moaning through a broken stave,
Full many a doleful reason gave,
Against his wooden cloister.
Eels, sliding on a marble shelf,
The growing treason aided;
And e'en a turtle 'woke itself,
To reprobate the cruel pelf,
In callepash that traded.
10

So hand and foot, and fin and paw,
In mutual faith were shaken;
And all the patriots made a law,
To murder every cook they saw,
The moment he was taken.
Ere long a wretched wight was found,
And carried to the kitchen;
The traitor of a jack went round;
The turkey dredg'd, the cook was brown'd,
And chanticleer the banquet crown'd,
With songs the most betwitching.
A.
11

THE FEATHER TURNED FINERY.

One morning an ostrich returning with glee,
From laying her eggs in the sand,
Trotted under the boughs of a mulberry tree,
Where a silk-worm was weaving her band.
“Good day,” said the worm, wishing much to be heard,
“Any news in the papers, my dear?”
“Who's there—is it you, my good friend?” said the bird;
“Why no, not a line that I hear:
“Except;—yes I met with one comical thing,
“(Design'd I suppose for a skit),
“An account of a feather I brush'd from my wing,
“Because it was ruffled and split:
12

“And a cone of old silk you had dropt to the ground,
“(Choice articles both, I confess),
“That one of those great human creatures had found,
“And made somehow into a dress:
“And when it was finish'd, (you would not suppose
“Such queer unaccountable pride),
“The creature imagin'd, because of its clothes,
“'Twas better than any beside!
“It walk'd to and fro for its fellows to see,
“And turn'd up its nose at the croud,
“As if it forgot, little cousin, that we,
“Had really best right to be proud!”
“He! he!—why you don't tell me so,” said the worm;
“Ha! ha!” said the bird, “but I do.”
“But I keep you from dinner; good day to you, ma'am,
“Mind,—I don't tell the story for true.”
A.
13

THE FISH TURNED FISHERS.

On the banks of a lake by a forest o'erhung,
One day a rebellion began,
The tenants of wood and of water among,
Against the dominion of man;
The partridge and rabbit, the pheasant and hare,
Were met for a chat on the shore,
And a fish or two ventur'd their gills in the air,
To listen, and put in their oar.
“My friends of the forest,” the partridge begun,
“Just lords of these beautiful shades,
“You know that a great living thing with a gun,
“Our rightful dominion invades.”
14

“Alas!” said a pheasant, who limp'd from aspray,
“I cannot but join the complaint,
“My wing was so dreadfully shatter'd to day,
“That really I'm ready to faint:
“And 'twas but last year (I remember the spot,
“Beneath yonder blossoming thorn),
“My dear honour'd parents were kill'd by one shot,
“And left me an orphan forlorn!”
“Poor thing!” cried a gudgeon, “that's hard to be sure,
“But is it so shocking to bear,
“As what wretched fishes are forc'd to endure,
“Hook'd up, and then drown'd in the air?”
“But I,” said a rabbit, almost out of breath,
And heaving his white little breast,
“Have just had my family all put to death,
“By a ferret turn'd into my nest!”
15

The hare having listen'd awhile for a foe,
And finding no enemy near,
In sorrowful whispers unbosom'd her woe,
And finish'd the tale with a tear.
A warm-hearted squirrel who heard them complain,
Perch'd high on a neighbouring tree,
Now able no longer his wrath to contain,
Cried out, “then my fellows be free!
“To arms, brother hare, with your pointer and gun,
“And you, my poor friends of the wave,
“And you feather'd cousins, in purple and dun,
“Take courage, and man is your slave!”
Each fur-cover'd bosom and silvery gill,
With sudden emotion was fir'd,
And gay little knights of the topple and quill,
To freedom and glory aspir'd:
16

The woods were deserted, the fishes arose
In spirited shoals from the tide;
Hares now were the sportsmen, and cours'd for the beaux,
Poor gentlemen anglers were hook'd by the nose,
And the whole race of fox hunters died.
A.
17

THE MONKEY TURNED BEAU.

A sprightly young monkey, of novelty fond,
Resolv'd from his forest to go;
For having survey'd his fine form in a pond,
He was seiz'd with a longing to join the beau monde,
As he thought he might pass for a beau.
So he hired a French valet, by line and by rule
To fit him complete for his part;
And daily took lessons like ladies at school,
In dressing, and dancing, and playing the fool;
And got his instructions by heart.
18

The language of fashion he readily caught,
And began quite accomplish'd to grow,
And the valet declar'd he should never have thought,
That a gentleman monkey so soon could be taught,
To look like a gentleman beau.
The monkey, who thirsted for popular praise,
These habits acquired with ease;
While his man would instruct him in all the fine ways
That ladies and gentlemen learn now-a-days,
In such pretty lessons as these.
“Suppose me a lady,—you sitting beside her,”
Says he, “and engaging in chat,
“Now make a grimace, Sir;” the monkey grinn'd wider.
“O no!” said the valet, “dat will not do nider,
“A great deal more silly dan dat.
19

“And den to her speeches, however absurd,
“Immediately you must retort;
“'Twas de very best ting dat you ever have heard.”
“What if it be nonsense?” “O yes, 'pon my word,
“For Sir, it is all of dat sort.
“Indeed!” said the monkey, “I'd not understood,
“Such a poor silly thing was a beau;
“A little amusement is all very good,
“But I'd rather stay here and crack nuts in the wood,
“Than let down my dignity so.”
“Dat's just as you please, Sir,” the valet began,
“But dis is de modish address;
“If you be not as silly as ever you can,
“De ladies will laugh, Sir, and call you wise man,
“Which is shocking rude name I confess.”
20

“Why then,” he replied, “I'm resolv'd to be free,
“And return to my natural shape;
“For were I completely accomplish'd,” said he,
“I only a gentleman monkey should be,
“And therefore I'm sure 'twill be wiser for me,
“To remain a respectable ape.”
J.
21

THE DUNCE TURNED SCHOLAR.

There once was a poor little lad,
In shameful disgrace in his school,
For all his companions were glad,
To call him a dunce and a fool.
And these shocking names that he bore,
To be sure he'd the credit of earning,
For he always was lazy before,
And never too fond of his learning.
Too idle himself to attend,
He always assistance would ask;
Every day did he go to his friend,
With, “Pray, Ben, do finish my task.”
22

At last quite asham'd of his state,
And finding he could not defend it,
He determin'd no longer to wait,
But set about trying to mend it.
And so a new method he tried,
He left his bad habits at once,
To his task with such patience applied,
That nobody call'd him a dunce.
No longer inactive he sits,
Or studies with negligent air;
For what he was wanting in wits,
He made up with patience and care.
That success will such effort attend,
We now may set down as a rule,
For this little lad in the end
Became the head boy in his school!
J.
23

THE MARE TURNED FARRIER.

One day at the farrier's, a spirited mare,
Declar'd that her nerves were so tender,
The process of shoeing she never could bear,
And if he persisted in hammering there,
She would take certain means to defend her.
The farrier (who happen'd just then to be cross),
Retorted abruptly upon her,
That “he would not be taken to task by a horse!”
The mare looked indignant, and giving a toss,
Resolv'd to stand up for her honour.
24

Accordingly lifting them up from the floor,
(Regardless of danger or trouble),
She shod both his feet, as he did her's before,
And when he complain'd of the torture he bore,
She bid him remember that she had got four,
And therefore her sufferings were double.
J.
25

THE ASS TURNED MILLER.

As a frolicsome ass
Was at play on the grass,
While her master was sleeping in bed;
A funny idea,
As will shortly appear,
Came hastily into her head.
Thought she, “what a while
“I with labour and toil,
“Have been a poor slave, and am still;
“Now 'twould be a droll joke
“To give master the yoke,
“And be myself lord of the mill.
26

“And thus it shall be:”
So away trotted she,
And (if one may credit the fable),
She hobbled up stairs,
Took her lord unawares,
And drove him down into the stable.
The bridle and bit
She soon made to fit,
And taking a stick for her goad,
She laid a large sack
Full of corn on his back,
And drove him along on the road.
And while on the way,
Says the donkey, “I say!
27

“You must now be my slave, if you please;
“So your duty confess!”
The poor miller said, “Yes,”
And straightway fell down on his knees.
Again on the way,
Says the donkey, “I say!
“I wish you'd make haste to get in,
“For the whip hurts my paws,
“I fancy because
“I have such a delicate skin.
The miller said, “True,
“'Tis too much for you,
“Do pray let me hold it, your honour!”
The donkey complies,
When to her surprise,
Her master straight lays it upon her.
28

With blows on each side,
He salutes her brown hide,
And lays them on thicker and faster;
So it soon came to pass,
That the poor silly ass
Submitted in tears to her master.
Now should master or miss,
Exclaim, what of all this!
I reply, that the ass in her fetters,
Those people may suit,
Who like this silly brute,
Attempt to rule over their betters.
J.
29

THE BEE TURNED DRONE.

A bee who had travell'd so far and so wide,
There scarce was a wild flower he had not espied,
A bean-field, a primrose, or daisy;
Who had ever been active, and first on the wing,
As soon as warm weather gave notice of spring,
Took it into his head to be lazy.
Said he to himself, as he mused on a tree,
“I don't think I'm handsomely dealt by,” says he,
“And am not over-pleased, I must own;
“I have travell'd so often, and labour'd so well,
“And laid such a plentiful store in the cell,
“That I've now a great mind to turn drone.
30

“'Tis hard when my youth and my spirits are fled,
“And so many bean-fields are wither'd and dead,
“That one scarcely earns salt to one's porridge;
“I say it is hard to fag early and late,
“Like the rawest young fellow that works for the state,
“To supply the republic with forage!
“Without more ado, I'll let business alone,
“And live on my fortune, a gentleman drone,
“From toil and anxiety freed:”
So back to the door of his dwelling he sped,
And swaggering a little, and tossing his head,
Called out for a bottle of mead.
“You there, little buzz,” said he, “mind what I say,
“Get ready my supper by seven to-day,
31

“Before you see after your own!”
“Hey, friend!” said a bee, hard at work in his cell,
“I have not the pleasure of hearing you well;”
“Sir,” said he, “I'm a gentleman drone.”
“O! a gentleman drone, are you friend?” he replied,
Then drawing a little shrill trump from his side,
Blew forth such a spirited air,
That a volunteer band, two and two from the hive,
Left the poor little fellow more dead than alive,
At leisure some luckier plan to contrive,
Than playing the gentleman there.
[A.]
32

THE HORSE TURNED DRIVER.

A poor looking hack,
Had long borne on her back
A groom, who did nothing but chide her,
Till at length unto her
Came a thought, “My good Sir,”
Quoth she, “I've a mind to turn rider.”
So stirrup and bit,
She had alter'd to fit,
Nor of bridle and spur was she sparing;
And the groom she displays
In a saddle or chaise,
Whenever she goes for an airing.
33

If he dare to complain,
She but tightens the rein,
And whips him for going no faster;
But some people say,
She had trudg'd to this day,
If he'd been a merciful master.
A.
34

THE DISCONTENTED VIOLET.

A violet who blossomed gay
Beneath a hedge of prickly may,
Condemn'd upon her stalk to linger,
No taller than one's little finger;
With nothing but her gentle smell,
Her place of residence to tell;
But young in days, in wisdom younger,
For public fame began to hunger.
So once upon a summer's eve,
When dews had dropp'd on every leaf,
And in the thickets over head
The birds had sung themselves to bed,
35

A breath of air just creeping by,
Fancied he heard a little sigh,
And being kind, and prone to pity,
Put down his wing to hear her ditty.
“Green Earth, or whosoe'er you be,
“Who had the care of forming me,
“What fame or glory could you get
“By making me a violet?
“No traveller plucks me for his own,
“My very being is unknown;
“And all the sweetness I possess,
“Is wasted on the wilderness!
“O! hear my humble prayer,” she cried,
“And make me any thing beside.”
Green Earth the lamentation heard,
And took the violet at her word:
36

Before the sun had shewn his head,
She placed her on a spacious bed,
Surrounded by a level lawn,
And left her there to wait till dawn.
At length the shadows broke apace,
And daylight stared her in the face:
Full fronting to the southern sky
She was a sunflower, two yards high!
And not a neighbour, great or small,
Grew nearer than the garden wall.
The sun, who did not recollect her,
Look'd rudely at her to detect her,
And overcome with shame and dread,
She blush'd, but could not hang her head:
Alas! no friendly bush was nigh,
To screen her from his cruel eye;
37

No mossy rill, with bubble sweet,
Crept by to wash her burning feet;
And out of all the bees she knew,
Not one dropp'd in with—“How d'ye do?”
“O! pitying mother Earth,” she cried,
“Forgive a silly creature's pride!
“Again my pretty bank permit
“To shield thy foolish violet,
“And on thy bosom evermore,
“My freshest fragrancy shall pour.”
Kind Earth the better wish obey'd,
And dropp'd her in her native shade.
38

THE MOON IN THE DUMPS.

'Tis said that once, in former days,
The moon (too proud to borrow)
Inform'd the sun she'd use his rays
No longer than the morrow.
For aught she knew, she was as bright
As any of her neighbours,
And therefore begg'd he'd save his light,
For less offensive labours.
The sun, who loved a little mirth,
Respectfully obey'd her,
And stood and laugh'd behind the earth,
At what a trick he'd play'd her;
39

For not a single ray of light
Around her forehead glitter'd:
The merry wag enjoyed her fright,
And all the planets titter'd:
But when he saw her silly face
With crimson blushes burning,
He presently resum'd his place,
And gave her back again the rays,
She'd just before been spurning.
A.
40

CHILDREN AT WAR, AND CATS AND DOGS AT PEACE.

Fierce cats and dogs will savage grow,
And snarl, and fight, and batter,
But as for boys and girls you know,
'Tis quite another matter.
But here it seems contrarywise,
For while the brutes are quiet,
The children all in fury rise,
And join in shameful riot.
Here's little Mary all in tears,
And Kate a sulky plight in,
And John is boxing Lucy's ears,
And Ben and James are fighting!
41

While Tray forbears to bark and rail,
Since 'tis not necessary,
And Growler wags his curly tail
To make the kitten merry.
The little cur with saucy head,
Set up a bark provoking,
But then he wagg'd his tail, and said,
He only was a-joking.
And puss upon the carpet lies,
Where fire warm has brought her,
And purrs away her good advice
Unto her infant daughter.
J.
42

SERVANTS TURNED MASTERS.

Altho' in all countries by actions and words,
Man calls himself lord of the flocks and the herds,
Thro' some hocus pocus (the fable knows how)
Here beasts are the masters, and men in the plough!
And if their rough language will weave into verse,
Perhaps 'twill amuse us to hear them converse;
For after some bowing, and scraping, and that,
They soon were engaged in a sociable chat.
“To ask your opinion I long have intended,
“Of this breed of cattle I've heard recommended,”
Says one to the other, “for I understand
“They answer extremely for arable land.”
43

“O yes, the fat farmers,—an excellent breed!
“I've purchas'd two capital fellows indeed:
“But I hear a prize farmer is soon to be shown,
“That they tell me weighs upwards of seventy stone.
“But then those great overgrown animals, neighbour,
“I fancy are just good for nothing at labour;
“They only keep eating, and drinking, and that—
“I don't like a beast so prodigiously fat.”
“Why mine, tho' much leaner, are sad idle creatures,
“They are such amazing extravagant eaters!
“The pudding and meat they consume in a day,
“Would keep my whole household in clover and hay.
“Then 'twould grieve you to see how they trouble me, sir,
“Of a morning before I can get them to stir;
“Indeed all my orders they'd totally scorn,
“If I were not to roar, and to shew them my horn.
44

“For in order to keep them a little in fear,
“I'm really oblig'd to be very severe:
“Well, thank you my friend,” said the other, “but now
“I must wish you good day,—my respects to the cow.”
Thus chatted the cattle, as goes the old fable,
The moral let any one find who is able;
If none should occur, let us see if this suits—
That some men behave little better than brutes.
J.
45

A LITTLE LADY IN A GREAT FRIGHT.

Well! this is a picture that may
Provoke any body to laughter,
Here's a lady a running away,
And a spider a scampering after!
The spider express'd his surprise,
With contempt upon every feature,
That a thing of his minikin size,
Could fright so gigantic a creature!
“I can do her no harm if I try,”
Said he, “with my pincers so pliant,
“For the fangs that would murder a fly,
“Would only just tickle a giant.
46

“What need can there be for her fear?
“For were I about her to linger,
“I think it would take me a year
“To bite off the end of her finger!
“Or if a great web I should weave,
“Expecting that way to come at her,
“She could blow it away I believe,
“And there'd be an end of the matter.”
“True spider,—and yet I have heard,
“(Though a baby might crush you to pieces)
“Some people there are so absurd,
“As to fear you and all of your species.”
With this he ran off to his net,
(A cobweb commodious and shady)
But told every neighbour he met,
That a spider can frighten a lady.
J.
47

FISH OUT OF WATER.

Some folks there are, both small and great,
Who (though it very strange is),
Seem discontented in their state,
And always long for changes.
The poor are pining to be rich,
And dunces to be witty;
Thus all are discontented, which
Is certainly a pity.
That such may alter this defect,
And learn to grow contented,
With all due reverence and respect,
This fable is presented.
48

It happen'd that a little cod,
Once gazing at the sky,
Began to think it very odd,
That he must in the water plod,
While birds in air can fly.
A sprat, a herring, and a trout,
United in replying,
That if they all should venture out,
Their fins would serve beyond a doubt,
Instead of wings for flying.
So out they sprang,—but dreadful slaughter
Ensued, and sad commotion;
Poor trout!—a flying eagle caught her,
The cod shriek'd out, and cried for water!
The sprat and herring died in torture,
Before they reach'd the ocean!
49

The finny tribes, both sire and son,
Had come from every quarter,
Impatient all to see the fun;
But when the fatal stroke was done,
Fear seiz'd upon them every one,
And all dived under water.
A grave old fish, who cut the tide
With fifty sons behind her;
Now told how their companions died,
And warn'd them 'gainst such foolish pride,
So all the little fishes cried,
And promis'd they would mind her.
A.
50

THE MONUMENT TURNED UPSIDE DOWN.

'Tis said that an enemy once took in hand,
To steal the old monument out of our land,
And lest that in carting it off it should crack,
Sent a fellow to bring it away on his back.
So with saws and with pick-axes arm'd cap-a-pee,
By night, with a lanthorn, away trotted he,
But that was so clumsy, and he was so slim,
That he could not take it up, but we took up him.
A.
51

THE HOUSE TURNED TOPSY-TURVY.

There was a fine house built with chamber and garret,
As high as from bottom to top;
Sides white as a turnip; tiles red as a carrot,
The trees all around it as green as a parrot,
And a door into which you might hop.
One thing was amiss tho', the mansion was smoky,
(A tale might of many be said),
Light a fire, and directly it threaten'd to choke ye,
It made you so hacky, and coughy, and croaky,
And teaz'd master, mistress, and maid.
52

So they laid heads together in grand consultation,
This smoky old chimney to cure;
Each took it in turn to make lengthy oration,
With statement, rejoinder, and dark explanation,
And they made a great change, to be sure.
For they said, since the smoke made such terrible pother,
And would at the fire-place come out,
Preferr'd it, and us'd it, and would learn no other,
But blinded their eyes with its soot and its smother,
Topsy-Turvy they'd turn it about!
So the bricklayers and carpenters pull'd it to pieces,
(They love a good job any how),
And turn'd the top downwards: ye masters and misses,
Did ye ever behold such a chimney as this is?
But alas! why 'tis still smoky now!
53

Spite of toil, and of trouble, and money expended,
Still it smokes; and they grumble and groan.
So oft we've complain'd, and to get our case mended,
Have tried some extravagant scheme,—and it ended
Like turning the house upside down.
T.
54

THE BOY TURNED GIANT.

A paper kite who'd been to try,
Her pinions in a windy sky,
Became unluckily entangled
Upon a tree, from which she dangled:
“O! now for wings,” her owner cried,
“And then this knot could be untied;
“Or as, till I'm a little older,
“They'd very likely hurt my shoulder,
“O! how I wish that I could be
“Myself, as lofty as the tree.”
The fable then proceeds to show,
That instantly he seem'd to grow;
55

His head increasing as it rose,
Shot thirty feet above his clothes;
His arms and legs, with sudden vigour,
Became proportionably bigger;
And in the twinkling of an eye,
He seem'd a tenant of the sky.
Alas! that moment he began
To wish himself a common man.
Through trees, at foot of which he'd gambol'd,
With difficulty now he scrambled,
At every turn the branches bare,
Tearing off handfuls of his hair;
And winds that only brush'd the plain,
Blew round his head a hurricane.
Return'd,—it was in vain he tried
Beneath his native roof to hide;
56

His knee was at the second floor!
His foot alone block'd up the door!
At length, while in this wretched plight,
He mourn'd his solitary height,
With sudden pleasure and surprize,
He dwindl'd to his native size.
One simple moral caught his eye,
While on his visit to the sky,
With all the pains he underwent;
“Whate'er thy station, be content,
“Nor wish to change a good in hand,
“For things you do not understand.”
A.
57

THE HOGS' COURT OF INQUIRY.

The hogs once assembled in learned debate,
To settle a point between man and the state,
A report having lately prevail'd in the corps,
That both were related some ages before.
The late learned pig, who was plac'd in the chair,
Began with a wish to be perfectly fair,
And said, though his feelings indignantly rose,
He would not be harsh to his bitterest foes.
“But who, fellow-hogs of our glorious sty!
“Most noble!—born only to fatten and die!
58

“Say, who the great nation shall dare to defame,
“By calling our race and the human the same!
“Behold them in idleness wasting their days,
“As if the best honour they had were to laze,
“A sottish, a selfish, an indolent train,
“Who do but encumber our royal domain.
“Mere gluttons!—contented to grovel in mire,
“To feast and to revel, to sleep and expire;
“Say, citizen pigs, can it ever be true,
“Such wretches as these were related to you?”
“No, no!” was repeated with sudden acclaim,
“We are not, we could not be ever the same;
“Our honour is clear from the scandalous blot,
“Long live the republic!—No, no, we are not.
59

When order again was a little restor'd,
'Twas pass'd by unanimous grunt at the board,
To celebrate yearly a national feast,
On two or three fricasseed butchers at least.
The old hog in armour, with sword by his side,
As commander in chief undertook to provide,
And all the hot dishes serv'd up at the fête,
Were won by the prowess of Pig-hog the Great.
But a shrewd little, thoughtful, unprejudiced swine,
Who had not touch'd a bit, though invited to dine,
At length made this wholesome remark in his mind,
Alas!—to themselves, even pigs may be blind!
A.
60

THE ASS TURNED ELEPHANT.

An ass who was vain, and who thought it was hard,
That nobody shew'd her the smallest regard,
Determin'd no longer to bear such neglect,
But make people pay her a little respect.
Now the means that occurr'd to her donkeyship's brain,
Was to try a kind elephant's trunk to obtain;
For she thought with this badge of distinction at hand,
Tho' not quite as large, she should be quite as grand.
So she went to a friend of a neighbourly heart,
And boldly requested the loan of that part.
61

The elephant, looking as grave as a monk,
Reluctantly handed the donkey his trunk.
So bearing her present, delighted she goes,
And fastens it on to the end of her nose;
And tho' to be sure it weigh'd heavy upon her,
She put up with that for the sake of the honour.
Thus trotted her ladyship on the highway,
Fast closing her mouth up for fear she should bray;
While, scorning to nod to the donkies that pass'd her,
She proudly stalk'd up to the door of her master.
“Well done!” exclaim'd he (not alarm'd in the least),
“This is a convenient new limb to my beast;
“Besides the two panniers she'd formerly bear,
“I can swing my great basket on this, I declare.”
“Alas!” she exclaim'd, and her countenance sunk,
“What then, does he know me in spite of my trunk?
62

“I'm not your old donkey, believe me, my lord,
“But a handsome young elephant come from abroad.”
“For shame!” cried her master, “such stories to tell,
“I know you, my stubborn old donkey, too well;
“Did you think, silly brute! upon me to impose,
“By wearing that thing at the end of your nose?”
The donkey, alarm'd at this insolence shown her,
Now said, she must carry it back to its owner;
Who, having some business elsewhere, she pretended
Had got her to take it to town to be mended.
“O no! for the future 'tis yours, never fear,
“I like it so well you shall keep it, my dear;
“So now hold your tongue, if you please,” said the man
“And bear your new burden as well as you can.”
63

Poor ass, thus oblig'd to submit to her fate,
Repented her pride, but repented too late;
As every one must, who will seek admiration,
In ways that can never belong to his station.
J.
64

GAME TURNED SPORTSMEN.

A stag, fox, and hare, once agreed, it is said,
To kill the gamekeeper to eat,
So they aim'd an old fowling-piece strait at his head,
But when they expected to find he was dead,
They saw he was still on his feet.
The hare in affright ran away to the wood,
And hid herself far in the shade;
The others in silent astonishment stood,
While the gamekeeper laughing as hard as he could,
No symptom of terror betray'd.
65

At last, said the fox, “there's one thing we forgot,
“Which I know to be excellent stuff;
“If we had but been furnish'd with powder and shot,
“I'm certain we should not have fail'd in our plot;”
And the stag replied, “likely enough.”
“And yet after all,” she continued to say,
“I'm glad we are foil'd in our plan;
“We'll do what we can to keep out of his way,
“But I very much doubt, if we lawfully may
“Revenge ourselves thus upon man.”
J.
66

THE CHIMNEY TURNED ROUND.

A wond'rous lad I heard of once,
A mighty clever person,
His aunt indeed woudl call him dunce—
But then he was not her son.
E'en when a child he shew'd his wit,
By many a funny blunder;
In his white frock he'd cut a slit,
And cry, “I've done a wonder!”
When he an older youth was grown,
A great tall boy and slender,
He brought a new tick bolster down,
And placed it for a fender!
67

He oft sat down upon a seat
So near the fire 'twould burn him,
And tho' he could not bear the heat,
He never thought to turn him.
What does this youth of wit profound!
Why (misses, hark, and masters),
He whirl'd the grate and chimney round,
By running them on castors!
Then in the midst a spit so tall
He fix'd, to end th' adventure,
So round runs fire, and chimney and all,
To roast the meat i'the centre!
Encourage him is my desire,
Thro' this terraqueous globe all;
He'll set the very Thames on fire,
With icicle or snow-ball!
T.
68

BIRDS TURNED FOWLERS.

All the birds in the air, once agreed to repair
To a neighbouring field to make merry,
Fine snails, worms, and flies, their table supplies,
And some excellent juice of the cherry.
The owl being there, she was plac'd in the chair,
And the hawk did the honours below;
Two active young quails help'd the party to snails,
And the worms were serv'd up by the crow.
Thus assembled in state, a most learned debate
Their wise little poles was employing,
'Twas how they could set about making a net,
To catch a great bird-nesting boy in.
69

The raven for one, said, “the thing might be done,”
And loudly he scream'd approbation;
The sparrow cried, “hush!” “Never mind,” said the thrush,
“I care not who hears his oration.”
The swallow, I take it, consented to make it,
She being remarkably clever;
And all of them thought, that if once he were caught,
It would stop the vile practice for ever.
One little grey bird, begging leave to be heard,
Said, “really I very much doubt it;”
But her mate with a sneer, said “Silence, my dear!
“You ladies know nothing about it.”
The nightingale sigh'd, and gently she cried,
That, “revenge would not soften her woe,”
The linnet said, “Well, do you hear philomel?”
“O never mind her,” said the crow.
70

“Why no,” said the robin, “she's always a-sobbing;
“We shall not mind that, I can tell her.”
“For shame!” cried the hawk, “how rudely you talk,
“You are an impertinent fellow!”
Now firmly agreed that the plan would succeed,
They revell'd in merriment hearty,
Till the owl with much state, said, “'twas growing so late,
“That she begg'd leave to break up the party.”
So it follow'd in short, that the robber was caught,
And the birds were all highly elated;
But how it came about, that he found his way out,
Our history never related.
71

Now to him who can bear little birds to ensnare,
This moral at least may occur—
Tho' none of them yet, ever made such a net,
It would serve him just right if they were.
J.
THE END.
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