Permits poor souls, without offence,
To sell their fruit and count their pence,
And, as by humour grown insane,
Allows the boys to touch his cane!
Poor little Sweep true comfort quaffs,
Ceases to cry--and loudly laughs.
See! what a wondrous powerful spell
_Punch_ holds o'er Dustman and his bell;
And scolding Wife with clapper still--
The Landlord quits awhile his till,
While Pot-boy, busiest of the bunch,
Steals pence for self, and beer for _Punch_.
Look at that window, you may trace
At every pane a laughing face.
Yon graceful Girl and her smart Lover,
And in the story just above her,
The Housemaid, with her hair in papers,
All finding _Punch_ a cure for vapours.
E'en the pale Dandy, fresh from France,
Throws on the group an eye askance;
Twirls his moustache, and seems to fear
That some gay friend may catch him here.
The Widowed wretch, who only fed,
On bitter thoughts and tear-wash'd bread,
Forgets her cares, and seems to smile
To see friend _Punch_ her babe beguile.
Magician of the wounded heart,
Oh! there thy wonted aid impart:
Long be the merryman of our Isle,
And win the universal smile!

CONTENT.

In some lone hamlet it were better far
To live unknown amid Contentment's isle,
Than court the bauble of an air-blown star,
Or barter honour for a prince's smile!

Hail! tranquil-brow'd Content, forth sylvan god,
Who lov'st to sit beside some cottage fire,
Where the brown presence of the blazing clod
Regales the aspect of the aged sire.

There, when the Winter's children, bleak and cold,
Are through December's gloomy regions led;
The church-yard tale of sheeted ghost is told,
While fix'd attention dares not turn its head.

Or if the tale of ghost, or pigmy sprite,
Is stripp'd by theme more cheerful of its power,
The song employs the early dim of night,
Till village-curfew counts a later hour.

And oft the welcome neighbour loves to stop,
To tell the market news, to laugh, and sing,
O'er the loved circling jug, whose old brown top
Is wet with kisses from the florid ring!

There, whilst the cricket chirps its chimney song,
Within some crumbling chink, with moss embrown'd,
The lighted stick diverts the infant throng,
And fans are waved, and ribbands twirl'd around.

Entwine for me the wreath of rural mirth,
And blast the murm'ring fiend, from chaos sent;
Then, while the house-dog snores upon the hearth,
I'll sit, and hail thy sacred name, CONTENT!

EPITAPH.