Ffor this J speake by proofe, from morne till noone
Theire Labour and theire trauell have noe ende
To wash, to rubb, to wipe, and when thats done
To striue where nothing is amiss to mende;
To polish and expolish, paynte and stayne,
With oyntment daube, and then wipe out againe.
ADMONITION TO SPENDTHRIFTS.
On the fly-leaf of an old volume, printed in 1690, the following excellent precept occurs :
Spend not, nor spare too much; be this thy care,
Spare but to spend, and only spend to spare:
He that spends more, may want and so complain,
But he spends best that spares to spend again.
In one of the Rule and Order Books of the Court of Exchequer, in Ireland :
A man in tim he may clim,
And fortan may him fed;
Bout down he shall, and have a fal
If he tak not hed.
LINES FROM A PARISH REGISTER.
Lines from a blank page in the old (A.D. 1666-1695) Parish Register, at Eckington, Derbyshire :—
Omnia falce metit tempus.
Our Grandfathers were Papists,
Our Fathers, Olivarians,
We, their Sons, are Atheists,
Sure our Sons will be queer ones.
ANTI-BANTING.
To sleep soundly,
Eat roundly,
Is the ready way to become fatt.
From a M.S. Common-place Book ex libris Caroli Blake, 1681.
Northcote, the painter, sent a proof-copy of the illustrations to his Fables, with this inscription :
THE following singular poem was written by Robert Southey, Esq., the late Poet-Laureate. Lodore is a celebrated waterfall on the banks of Derwent Water, in Cumberland :
HOW DOES THE WATER COME DOWN AT LODORE ?
Here it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling;
Here smoking and frothing,
Its tumult and wrath in,
It hastens along, conflicting, strong,
Now striking and raging,
As if a war waging,
Its caverns and rocks among.
Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and flinging,
Showering and springing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Twining and twisting
Around and around,
Collecting, disjecting,
With endless rebound;
Smiting and fighting,
A sight to delight in ;
Confounding, astounding,
Dizzing and deafening the ear with its sound.
Reeding and speeding,
And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and growing,
And running and stunning,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And dinning and spinning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And heaving and cleaving,
And thundering and floundering,
And falling and crawling and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
Dividing and gliding and sliding,
And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,
And clattering and battering and shattering,
And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,
Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,
And thumping and flumping and bumping and jumping,
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;
And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending,
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,-
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.
These lines were said to have been addressed to a Dr. Fitzgerald, on reading the following couplet in his apostrophe to his native village :
And thou! dear Village, loveliest of the clime,
Fain would I name thee, but I scant in rhyme.
I subjoin a tolerably complete copy of this "rime doggrell:"
A Bard there was in sad quandary,
To find a rhyme for Tipperary.
Long labour'd he through January,
Yet found no rhyme for Tipperary;
Toil'd every day in February
But toil'd in vain for Tipperary;
Search'd Hebrew text and commentary,
But search'd in vain for Tipperary;
Bored all his friends at Inverary,
To find a rhyme for Tipperary;
Implored the aid of "Paddy Cary,"
Yet still no rhyme for Tipperary;
He next besought his mother Mary,
To tell him rhyme for Tipperary;
But she, good woman, was no fairy,
Nor witch-though born in Tipperary;
Knew everything about her dairy,
But not the rhyme for Tipperary;
The stubborn muse he could not vary,
For still the lines would run contrary,
When'er he thought on Tipperary;
And though of time he was not chary,
'Twas thrown away on Tipperary;
Till of his wild-goose chase most weary,
He vow'd to leave out Tipperary.
But, no-the theme he might not vary,
His longing was not temporary,
To find meet rhyme for Tipperary,
He sought among the gay and airy,
He pester'd all the military,
Committed many a strange vagary,
Bewitch'd it seem'd by Tipperary.
He wrote post-haste to Darby Leary,
Besought with tears his Auntie Sairie,
But sought he far, or sought he near, he
Ne'er found a rhyme for Tipperary.
He travelled sad through Cork and Kerry,
He drove "like mad" through sweet Dunbary,
Kicked up a precious tantar-ara,
But found no rhyme for Tipperary;
Lived fourteen weeks at Straw-ar-ara,
Was well-nigh lost in Glenègary,
Then started "slick" for Demerara,
In search of rhyme for Tipperary.
Through "Yankee-land," sick, solitary,
He roam'd by forest, lake, and prairie—
He went per terram et per mare—
But found no rhyme for Tipperary.
Through orient climes on dromedary,
On camel's back through great Sahara—
His travels were extraordinary-
In search of rhyme for Tipperary.
Fierce as a gorgon or chimera,
Fierce as Alecto or Megæra,
Fiercer than e'er a love-sick bear he
Raged through "the londe" of Tipperary:
His cheeks grew thin, and wondrous hairy,
His visage long, his aspect "eerie,"
His tout ensemble, faith! 'twould scare ye,
Amidst the wilds of Tipperary.
Becoming hypocon-dri-ary,
He sent for his apothecary,
Who ordered "balm" and saponary-
Herbs rare to find in Tipperary.
In his potations ever wary,
His choicest drink was "home gooseberry."
On swipes, skim-milk, and smallest beer, he
Scanted rhyme for his Tipperary.
Had he imbibed good old Madeira,
Drank "pottle-deep" of golden sherry,
Of Falstaff sack, or ripe canary,
No rhyme had lacked for Tipperary.
Or had his tastes been literary,
He might have found extemporary,
Without the aid of dictionary,
Some fitting rhyme for Tipperary.
Or had he been an antiquary,
Burnt midnight oil in his library,
Or been of temper less " camsteary,"
Rhymes had not lacked for Tipperary.
He paced about his aviary,
Blew up sky-high his secretary,
And then in truth and anger sware he,
There was no rhyme for Tipperary.
At Brookes's, of pigeons they say there are flocks,
But the greatest of all is one Mr. Fox :
If he takes up a card, or rattles a box,
Away fly the guineas of this Mr. Fox.
O ye gamblers, your hearts must be harder than rocks,
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