the
window is seen;
A weakly monthly rose that don't blow, and a red geranium, and a
teaplant with five black leaves, and one green.
As for hollyhocks at the cottage doors, and honeysuckles and jasmines,
you may go and whistle;
But the Tailor's front garden grows two cabbages, a dock, a ha'porth
of pennyroyal, two dandelions, and a thistle!
There are three small orchards--Mr. Busby's the school-master's is the
chief--
With two pear trees that don't bear; one plum, and an apple that every
year is stripped by a thief.
There's another small day-school too, kept by the respectable
Mrs. Gaby,
A select establishment for six little boys, and one big, and four
little girls and a baby;
There's a rectory with pointed gables and strange odd chimneys that
never smokes,
For the Rector don't live on his living like other Christian sort of
folks;
There's a barber's once a week well filled with rough black-bearded,
shock-headed churls,
And a window with two feminine men's heads, and two masculine ladies
in false curls;
There's a butcher's, and a carpenter's, and a plumber's, and a small
greengrocer's, and a baker,
But he won't bake on a Sunday; and there's a sexton that's a coal
merchant besides, and an undertaker;
And a toyshop, but not a whole one, for a village can't compare with
the London shops;
One window sells drums, dolls, kites, carts, bats, Clout's balls, and
the other sells malt and hops,
And Mrs. Brown in domestic economy not to be a bit behind her betters,
Lets her house to a milliner, a watchmaker, a rat-catcher, a cobbler,
lives in it herself, and it's the post-office for letters.
Now I've gone through all the village--ay, from end to end, save and
except one more house,
But I haven't come to that--and I hope I never shall--and that's the
Village Poor House!

A PUBLIC DINNER.

"Sit down and fall to, said the Barmecide."
_Arabian Nights_.

At seven you just nick it,
Give card--get wine ticket;
Walk round through the Babel,
From table to table,
To find--a hard matter--
Your name in a platter;
Your wish was to sit by
Your friend Mr. Whitby,
But stewards' assistance
Has placed you at distance,
And, thanks to arrangers,
You sit amongst strangers,
But too late for mending;
Twelve sticks come attending
A stick of a Chairman,
A little dark spare man,
With bald, shining nob,
'Mid