THE BITER BIT;

OR, THE FARMER'S BLUNDER.

A TALE.

A FARMER once to London went,
To pay the worthy 'squire his rent;
He comes, he knocks, soon entrance gains, -
Who at the door such guests detains ?-
Forth struts the 'squire, exceeding smart-
"Farmer, you're welcome to my heart;
"You've brought my rent then-to an hair?
"The best of tenants I declare!"

The steward was called, the accounts made even,
The money paid, the receipt was given;
"Well," said the 'squire, " now you shall stay
"And dine with me, old friend, to-day;
" I've here some ladies wondrous pretty,
"And pleasant sparks, I warrant will fit ye,"
He scratch'd his ears, and held his hat,
And said "No, zur, two words to that;
"For look, d'ye zee, when I'ze to dine
"With gentlefolks zo cruel fine,
"I'ze use to make, and 'tis no wonder,
"In word or deed some plag'y blunder;
"Zo, if your honor will permit,
"I'll with your zarvants pick a bit."
"Pho!" says the 'squire, " it sha'n't be done,"
And to the parlour push'd him on.
To all around he nods and scrapes,
Not waiting-maid or butler 'scapes;
With often bidding takes his seat,
But at a distance mighty great.
Though often ask'd to draw his chair,
He nods, nor comes an inch more near.
By madam serv'd with body bended,
With knife and fork, and arms extended,
He reach'd as far as he was able,
To plate that overhung the table;

The Farmer's Blunder.

With little morsels cheats his chops,
And in the passage some he drops.
To shew where most his heart inclin'd,
He talk'd and drank'd to John behind,
When drank to in a modish way,

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" Your love's sufficient, zur," he'd say;
And to be thought a man of manners,
Still rose to make his aukward honors.
" Pish!"
"No, no," he cries, " zur, 'tis not fitting;
" Thơ I'm no scholar vers'd in letters,
" I knaws my duty to my betters."
Much mirth the farmer's ways afford,
And hearty laughs went round the board.
Thus the first course was ended well,
But at the next-Ah! what befel?
The dishes were now timely plac'd,
And table with fresh lux'ry grac'd;
When drank to by a neighbouring charmer,
Up as usual stands the farmer;
A wag, to carry on the joke,
Thus to his servant softly spoke:-
"Come hither, Dick, step gently there,
" And pul away the farmer's chair."
'Tis done, his congée made, the clown
Draws back, and stoops to set him down;
But by his posteriors overweigh'd,
And of his trusty seat betray'd,
As men at twigs, in rivers sprawling,
He caught the cloth to save his falling;
In vain, sad fortune, down he wallow'd
And ratling all the dishes follow'd.
The fops they lost their little wits,
The ladies squall'd, some fell in fits;
Here tumbled turkeys, tarts, and widgeons,
And there mine'd pies, and geese and pidgeons,
A pear pie on his belly drops,

says the 'squire, pray keep your sitting."

A custard pudding met his chops.

....

.....

Lord! what ado 'twixt belles and beaux',
Some curse, some cry, and rub their clothes;
This lady raves, and that looks down
And weeps, and wails her spatter'd gown;
One spark bemoans his spatter'd waistcoat;
One, "Rot him, he has spoil'd my lac'd coat."
Amidst the rout, the farmer long
The pudding suck'd and held his tongue;
At length he gets him on his breech,
And scrambles up to make his speech,
First rubs his eyes, mouth, and nostrils twangs,

Then snaps his fingers and harangues:

Plague tak't, Ize tell you how'd t'would be;

"Look here's a pickle, zurs, d'ye see;
"And some I'll warrant that make this chatter,
"Have clothes bedaub'd with grease or butter,
"That cost-" He had gone on, but here
Was stopt at once in his career,
"Peace, brute, begone!" the ladies cry;
The beaux' exclaim, " Fly, rascal, fly!"
"I'll tear his eyes out!" squeaks Miss Dollys
" I'll pink his soul out!" roars a bully.
At this the farmer shrinks with fear,
And thinking 'twas ill tarrying here,
Shabs off, and cries, "Aye, kill me then,
" Whene'er you catch me here again."
So home he jogs, and leaves the 'squire
To cool the sparks' and ladies' fire.
Thus ends my tale; - and now I'll try,
Like Prior, something to apply.

This may teach rulers of the nation,
Ne'er to place men above their station.
And this may shew the wanton wit,
That while he bites, he may be bit.

THE DEVIL.

From his brimstone bed, at break of day,
The Devil a walking had gone,

To visit his snug little farm of the earth,
And see how his stock went on.

And over the hill, and over the dale,

And flourishing over the plain,

And backwards and forwards he switched his long tail,

As a gentleman switches his cane

And pray how was the Devil drest?
Oh he was drest in his Sunday's best;
His coat was red, and his breeches blue,
And a hole behind for his tail to come through.

He passed by a lawyer, killing a viper

On a dunghill behind his own stable; The devil he laughed, for it put him in mind Of the story of Cain and Abel.

He met an apothecary on a white horse,
Going forth on his vocation;

And the Devil was glad, for it put him in mind
Of death in the Revelation.

He passed by a cottage with a double coach-house,

A cottage of gentility;

The Devil did grin, for his darling sin
Is pride that apes humility.

He passed by a rich bookseller's shop;
Quoth he, we are both of one college.
For I sat myself like a cormorant once,
Hard by the tree of knowledge.

As he passed by Cold-Bath-Fields, he saw

A solitary cell :

And the Devil was pleased, for it gave him a hint
For improving the prisons of hell.

THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN.

The world's a stage-and man has seven ages,
So shakspeare writes, king of dramatic sages,

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The Seven Ages of Woman.

But he forgot to tell you in his plan,

That Woman plays her part as well as Man.

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First, how her infant heart with triumph swells,

When the red coral shakes its silver bells!
She, like young statesmen, as the rattle rings,
Leaps at the sound, and struts in leading strings.

Next little Miss, in pin-a-fore so trim,
With nurse so noisy-with mamma so prim-
Eager to tell you all she's taught to utter,
Lisps as she grasps the allotted bread and butter;
Type of her sex - who though no longer young,
Holds every thing with ease, except the tongue.

A School Girl then, she curls her hair in papers,
And mimics father's gout and mother's vapours;
Tramples alike on custom and on toes,
And whispers all she hears to all she knows:
"Betty," she cries, " it comes into my head,
"Old maids grow cross because their cats are dead;
"My governess has been in such a fuss
"About the death of our old tabby puss-
"She wears black stockings-ha! ha! -what a pother,
" 'Cause one old cat's in mourning for another!"
The child of nature-free from pride and pomp,
And sure to please, though nothing but a romp.

Next riper Miss, who, nature more disclosing,
Now finds some tracts of art are interposing;
And with blue laughing eyes behind her fan,
First acts her part with that great actor, --Man!

Behold her now. an ogling vain Coquette,
Catching male gudgeons in her silver net,
All things revers'd-the neck cropt close and bare,
Scarce feels the incumbrance of a single hair;
Whilst the thick forehead tresses, frizzled full,
Rival the tufted locks that grace the bull.

Then comes that sober character-a Wife,
With all the dear distracting cares of life.