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EPIGRAMS.

A CHANCERY SUIT.

MR LEACH made a speech, angry, neat, but wrong.

Mr Hart, on the other part, was prosy, dull, and long.

Mr Bell spoke very well, though nobody knew about what;
Mr Trower talked for an hour, sat down, fatigued, and hot.

Mr Parker made the case darker, which was dark enough without ;
Mr Cooke quoted his book, and the Chancellor said, "I doubt."

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HOW like is this picture, you'd think that it breathes! What life! what expression! what spirit!

It wants but a tongue. "Alas!" said the spouse, "That want is its principal merit."

THE RULE OF THE ROAD.

THE rule of the road is a paradox quite
Both in riding and driving along;

If you go to the left you are sure to go right,
If you go to the right you go wrong:

But in walking the streets, 'tis a different case,
To the right it is right you should bear,
To the left should be left quite enough of free space
For the persons you chance to meet there.

LADIES' MEN.

WHETHER tall men, or short men, are best,

Or bold men, or modest or shy men,

I can't say; but I this can protest,
All the fair are in favour of hy-men.

AUTUMN.

OON as the morning trembles o'er the sky,

SOON

And unperceived, unfolds the spreading day;

Before the ripen'd field the reapers stand,

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At once they stoop and swell the lusty sheaves;
While through their cheerful band the rural talk,
The rural scandal, and the rural jest,

Fly harmless, to deceive the tedious time,
And steal unfelt the sultry hours away.

Behind, the master walks, builds up the shocks :
And, conscious, glancing oft on every side
His sated eye, feels his heart heave with joy.
The gleaners spread around, and here and there,
Spike after spike, their scanty harvest pick.
Be not too narrow, husbandman! but fling
From the full sheaf, with charitable stealth,
The liberal handful. Think, oh, think!
How good the God of harvest is to you,
Who pours abundance o'er your flowing fields ;
While these unhappy partners of your kind
Wide hover round you, like the fowls of heaven,
And ask their humble dole. The various turns
Of fortune ponder; that your sons may want
What now, with hard reluctance, faint, ye give.

Thomson.

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