Of last year's crop."-" Py cot, I'll crop 'em," Exclaims the quack, alert to stop him; "I'll take 'em, root and pranch, mynheer"."Sir, you know corn is very dear; But if you please to take the whole, You'll have a bargain, 'pon my soul."— "De whole? Aye, aye; de whole, by Got; I'll whip de whole out like a shot." So saying, while he drew his knife out (Enough to fright a poor man's life out), Right soon he rais'd him on his rump, And seiz'd the wond'ring farmer's stump : Then, without further disquisition,

On his big toe began incision ;

And would have driven the weapon further,
Had not his patient roar'd out, Murther!

My got, vat morther? Pye ant pye,
Your toe pe vite as your von eye;

I put just touche upon the pone :-
Dare now, you see de job is done."
Clodpole exclaims: "You rogue, what job?
Fly, skip, or I shall crack your nob.
With your confounded scalping-knife,
You dog, you've crippled me for life;
When I thought luck and cash were stirring,
You've ta'en my corn off with a murrain."

MY OWN CHARACTER.

TO A LADY.

THIS once I will alter my old-fashioned style,
For the rosy reward of a sensible smile;

And betray the wild sketches of passion, imprest
By Nature's own seal on that tablet my breast:
Which too oft, as 'tis sway'd by the whim of the
brain,

A rude chaos of blunder is forc'd to contain ;

Projections absurd, prepossessions unjust,

Though Friendship has still found it true to her trust ; And it still, when such blots are expung'd, may be fit For the splendour of sense, or the sparkle of wit.

Then first, I confess, lest you kindly mistake, I'm a compound extreme of the sage and the rake: Abstracted, licentious, affected, heroic;

A poet, a soldier, a coxcomb, a stoic:

This moment, abstemious as faquir or bramin ;
The next, Aristippus-like, swinishly cramming;

Now full of devotion, and loyal dispute ;

A democrat now, and a deist to boot :
Now a frown on my front, and a leer in my eye;
Now heaving unfeign'd sensibility's sigh:
Now weighing with care each elaborate word
Now the jest of a tavern, as drunk as a lord:
By imminent woes now unmov'd as a stone;
And now tenderly thrill'd by a grief not my own.

;

Of love shall I speak, who my bosom still bare To the arrows discharg'd from the glance of the fair ? A target whose verge many shafts may receive; But whose centre as yet is untouch'd, I believe; For who to one damsel could meanly confine That heart which is ever devoted to nine?

Shall I speak of politeness? Ah! there I am mute; For though honest in thought, I'm in manners-a

brute.

My virtues indeed are too shy to be seen;

Though my follies are not quite so bashful, I ween.
Not ev'na lady a fine thing I say;

As blunt as the hero of Wycherly's play :
Though ladies, good faith, have been never my game,
For I guess the whole sex are in secret the same.
Smooth flatt'ry may lift the dear nymph to the sky,
But her feelings will certainly give it the lic;

And in cases which I, and most probably you know, She would rather be Jane than Diana or Juno.

Shall I make to grave dowager Prudence a claim 3
Alas! I have slighted her much, to my shame ;
Secur'd no snug office, scrap'd up no estate,
Nay, scarce own a garret to shelter my pate;
So have nought to consign, when I've finish'd my
mirth,

But my book to the critics, my body to earth.
Through life's checquer'd changes, in every state,
Hypocrisy always has met with my hate.
Should you seek, in my mere conversation to find
Any sprightly conceits that illumine my mind,
Your search will be vain; for I candidly vow,
I can ne'er make a compliment, seldom a bow:
Yet when Venus appears at gay Bacchus's call,
I can coax her with any one blood of them all.
Though youth's florid blush on my cheek is decay'd
(Such blooms will soon wither in study's pale shade),
Remembrance still pensively hangs on each scene
That rais'd the sweet raptures of careless nineteen :
Then, to transport's fine touch every pulse was alive;
Now, I droop in the year of my age-twenty-five!
"This," you'll instantly cry," is a wonderful thing."
But my summer of genius arriv'd ere its spring.

The orange-tree thus prematurely, we're told,

Bears its blossoms of green, and its fruitage of gold; And these talents of mine, now entirely forgotten, Like the medlar, soon ripe, were, I fear, as soon rot

ten.