(to the Doctor), my jewel, just give that blockhead of mine a rap on his sconce with your little bit of a switch, and I'll do as much for you another time.

Dr. W. So, instead of my instructing the fellow, he has absolutely instructed me. (Aside.) Well, sir, you have convinced me what Dr. Wisepate should be, and now suppose we are ourselves again.

T. O'K. (rises.) With all my heart, sir. Here's your honor's wig and spectacles, and now give me my comfortable hat and switch.

Dr. W. And, Robert, obey the orders that my representative gave you.

Rob. What! carry him down to the kitchen!

T. O'K. No, young man, I shan't trouble you carry me down; I'll carry myself down, and you shall see what a beautiful hand master O'Keen is at a knife and fork. (Exit with Robert.)

Dr. W. (solus.) Well, this fellow has some humor; indeed, he has fairly turned the tables upon me. I wish I could get him to give a dose of my prescribing to her ladyship's cats and dogs, for the foolish woman has absolutely bequeathed in her will an annual sum for the care of each, after her death. Oh, dear! dear! how much more to her credit would it be to consider the present exigencies of her country, and add to the number of voluntary contributions!

RHYME OF THE RAIL-SAXE.

SINGING through the forests,

Rattling over ridges,

Shooting under arches,

Rumbling over bridges,

Whizzing through the mountains,

Buzzing o'er the vale,-
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Riding on the rail!

Men of different stations,

In the eye of Fame. Here are very quickly Coming to the same; High and lowly people, Birds of every feather, On a common level, Travelling together!

Gentlemen in shorts,

Looming very tall;

Gentlemen at large,

Talking very small; Gentlemen in tights,

With a loose-ish mien; Gentlemen in gray,

Looking rather green;

Gentlemen quite old,

Asking for the news;
Gentlemen in black,
In a fit of blues;
Gentlemen in claret,
Sober as a vicar;
Gentlemen in tweed,
Dreadfully in liquor!

Stranger on the right,

Looking very sunny,

Obviously reading

Something rather funny.

Now the smiles are thicker

Wonder what they mean? Faith, he's got the Knicker

Bocker Magazine!

Stranger on the left,

Closing up his peepers;

Now he snores amain,

Like the seven sleepers:

At his feet a volume

Gives the explanation, How the man grew stupid From "association !"

Ancient maiden lady
Anxiously remarks,
That there must be peril
'Mong so many sparks:
Roguish-looking fellow,
Turning to the stranger,
Says it's his opinion,
She is out of danger!

Woman with her baby,
Sitting vis-à-vis ;
Baby keeps a-squalling,
Woman looks at me;
Asks about the distance;

Says it's tiresome talking. Noises of the cars

Are so very shocking!

Market woman, careful

Of the precious casket,

Knowing eggs are eggs, Tightly holds her basket; Feeling that a smash,

If it came, would surely Send her eggs to pot, Rather prematurely.

Singing through the forests,

Rattling over ridges,

Shooting under arches,

Rumbling over bridges,

Whizzing through the mountains.
Buzzing o'er the vale,—
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Riding on the tail!

YOUNG WHIPSTITCH.-ANON.

A LONDON tailor, as 'tis said,
By buckram, canvas, tape and thread,
Sleeve-linings, pockets, silk and twist,
And all the long expensive list
With which their uncouth bills abound,
Tho' rarely in the garment found;
By these and other arts in trade,
Had soon a pretty fortune made;
And did what few had ever done,
Left thirty thousand to his son.

The son, a gay, young swagg'ring blade, Abhorr'd the very name of trade,

And lest reflection should be thrown
On him, resolv'd to quit the town,
And travel where he was not known.
In gilded coach and liv'ries gay,
To Oxford first he took his way;

There beaux and belles his taste admire,

His equipage and rich attire;

But nothing was so much ador'd

As his fine silver-hilted sword;

Tho' short and small, 'twas vastly neat,
The sight was deem'd a perfect treat.
Beau Ganter begg'd to have a look,
But when the sword in hand he took,
He boldly swore it was an odd thing,
And look'd much like a tailor's bodkin.

His pride was hurt by this expression,
Thinking they knew his sire's profession;
Sheathing his sword he sneak'd away,
And drove for Glo'ster that same day.
There soon he found new cause of grief,
For dining off some fine roast beef,
One ask'd him which he did prefer,
Some cabbage or a cucumber?

The purse-proud coxcomb took the hint,
Thought it severe reflection meant;
His stomach turn'd, he could not eat,
So made an ungenteel retreat;
Next day left Glo'ster in great wrath,
And bade his coachman drive to Bath
There he suspected fresh abuse,

Because the dinner was roast goose:
And that he might no more be jeer'd
Next day to Exeter he steer'd,
There with some bucks he drank about,
Until he fear'd they found him out;
His glass not full, as was the rule,
They said 'twas not a thimble full;
The name of thimble was enough,
He paid his reck'ning and went off.
He then to Plymouth took a trip,
And put up at the Royal Ship,
Which then was kept by Caleb Snip.