"Sir," replied King, "I merely thought to know, As by your house I chanced to-night to go,

(But, really, I disturb'd your sleep, I fear,)
I say, I thought that you perhaps could tell,
Among the folks who in this quarter dwell,
If there's a Mr. Thompson lodges here?"

The shivering Frenchman, though not pleased to find The business of this unimportant kind,

Too simple to suspect 'twas meant in jeer, Shrugg'd out a sigh that thus his rest was broke, Then, with unalter'd courtesy, he spoke;

"No, sare, no Monsieur Tonson lodges here.'

Our wag begg'd pardon, and toward home he sped, While the poor Frenchman crawl'd again to bed.

But King resolved not thus to drop the jest; So, the next night, with more of whim than grace, Again he made a visit to the place,

To break once more the poor old Frenchman's rest

He knock'd, but waited longer than before;
No footstep seem'd approaching to the door;
Our Frenchman lay in such a sleep profound.
King with the knocker thunder'd then again,
Firm on his post determined to remain;

And oft, indeed, he made the door resound.

At last King hears him o'er the passage creep,
Wondering what fiend again disturb'd his sleep:
The wag salutes him with a civil leer;
Thus drawling out to heighten the surprise,
While the poor Frenchman rubbed his heavy eyes,
"Is there a Mr. Thompson-lodges here?"

The Frenchman falter'd, with a kind of fright,
"Vy, sare, I'm sure I told you, sare, last night,

(And here he labour'd, with a sigh sincere,) No Monsieur Tonson in the varld I know, No Monsieur Tonson here, I told you so; Indeed, sare, dare no Monsieur Tonson here!"

Some more excuses tender'd, off King goes,
And the old Frenchman sought once more repose.
The rogue next night pursued his old career.
'Twas long indeed before the man came nigh,
And then he utter'd in a piteous cry,

66

Sare, 'pon my soul, no Monsieur Tonson here!"

Our sportive wight his usual visit paid,

And the next night came forth a prattling maid,
Whose tongue. indeed, than any Jack went faster
Anxious, she strove his'errand to inquire,

He said 'twas vain her pretty tongue to tire,
He should not stir till he had seen her master.

The damsel then began, in doleful state,
The Frenchman's broken slumbers to relate,
And begg'd he'd call at proper time of day.
King told her she must fetch her master down,
A chaise was ready, he was leaving town,

But first had much of deep concern to say.

Thus urged, she went the snoring man to call,
And long, indeed, was she obliged to bawl,

Ere she could rouse the torpid lump of clay.
At last he wakes; he rises; and he swears:
But scarcely had he totter'd down the stairs,
When King attack'd him in his usual way.

The Frenchman now perceived 'twas all in vain
To his tormentor mildly to complain,

And straight in rage began his crest to rear: 66 Sare, vat the devil make you treat me so?

"Vy,

Sare, I inform you, sare, three nights ago,

Got tam I swear, no Monsieur Tonson here!"

True as the night, King went, and heard a strife
Between the harass'd Frenchman and his wife,

Which would descend to chase the fiend away.
At length, to join their forces they agree,
And straight impetuously they turn the key,
Prepared with mutual fury for the fray.

Our hero, with the firmness of a rock,
Collected to receive the mighty shock,

Uttering the old inquiry, calmly stood.

The name of Thompson raised the storm so high,
He deem'd it then the safest plan to fly,

With "

Well, I'll call when you're in gentler mood.'

In short, our hero, with the same intent,

Full many a night to plague the Frenchman went,
So fond of mischief was the wicked wit:

They throw out water; for the watch they call;
But King, expecting, still escapes from all.
'Monsieur at last was forced his house to quit.

It happen'd that our wag, about this time,
On some fair prospect sought the Eastern clime;
Six lingering years were there his tedious lot.
At length, content, amid his ripening store,
He treads again on Britain's happy shore,
And his long absence is at once forgot.

To London, with impatient hope, he flies,
And the same night, as former freaks arise,

He fain must stroll, the well-known haunt to trace.
"Ah! here's the scene of frequent mirth," he said;
My poor old Frenchman, I suppose, is dead.
Egad, I'll knock, and see who holds the place."

66

With rapid strokes he makes the mansion roar, And while he eager eyes the opening door,

Lo! who obeys the knocker's rattling peal? Why, e'en our little Frenchman, strange to say! He took his old abode that very day,

Capricious turn of sportive Fortune's wheel!

Without one thought of the relentless foe,
Who, fiend-like, haunted him so long ago,
Just in his former trim he now appears:
The waistcoat and the nightcap seem'd the same;
With rushlight, as before, he creeping came,

And King's detested voice astonish'd hears.

As if some hideous spectre struck his sight,
His senses seem'd bewilder'd with affright,

His face, indeed, bespoke a heart full sore; Then, starting, he exclaim'd, in rueful strain, Begar! here's Monsieur Tonson come again! " Away he ran, and ne'er was heard of more.

66

GERMAN.

LEEDLE YAWOOB STRAUSS.

CHARLES F. ADAMS.

I HAF Von funny leedle poy

Vot gomes schust to my knee,

Der queerest schap, der createst rogue

As efer you dit see. ·

He runs, und schumps, und schmashes dings

In all barts off der house.

But vot off dot? He vas mine son,

Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He get der measles und der mumbs,
Und everyding dot's oudt;

He sbills mine glass off lager bier,
Poots schnuff indo mine kraut;

He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese,
Dot vas der roughest chouse;

I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy

But leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum,
Und cuts mine cane in dwo
To make der schticks to beat it mit,
Mine cracious, dot vas drue!
I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart,
He kicks oup sooch a touse;
But nefer mind, der poys vas few
Like dot young Yawcob Strauss.

He asks me questions sooch as dese:
Who baints mine nose so red?

Who vos it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt '

From der hair ubon mine hed?

Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp

Vene'er der glim I douse?

How gan I all dese dings eggsblain

To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss?

Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest

Und beaceful dimes enshoy :

But ven he vas ashleep in ped,

So quiet as a mouse,

I prays der Lord, "Dake anydings,

But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss."