In his easy chair Sir Andrew sate,

Being much too pious, as every one knows,
To do aught, of a Sunday eve, but doze,

He dreamt a dream, dear holy man,

And I'll tell you his dream as well as I can.
He found himself, to his great amaze,
In Charles the First's high Tory days,
And just at the time that gravest of courts
Had publish'd its Book of Sunday Sports. 3
Sunday Sports! what a thing for the ear
Of our Andrew, even in sleep, to hear!-
It chanced to be, too, a Sabbath day,

When the people from church were coming away;

1 "Of whom have come all these glorious titles, styles, and pomps into the Church But I would that I, and all my brethren, the Bishops, would leave all our styles, and write the styles of our offices," &c. - Life of Cranmer, by Strype, appendix.

2 Part of the process of embalmment.

3 The Book of Sports, drawn up by Bishop Moreton, was first put forth in the reign of James I., 1618, and afterwards republished, at the advice of Laud, by Charles I., 1633, with an injunction that it should be "made public by order from the Bishops." We find it therein declared, that "for his good people's recreation, His Majesty's pleasure was, that after the end of divine service they should not be disturbed, letted, or discouraged from any lawful recreation, such as dancing, either of men or women, archery for men, Jeaping, vaulting, or any such harmless recreations, nor having of May-games, Whitsun-ales, or Morris-dances, or setting up of May-poles, or other sports therewith used," &c.

And Andrew with horror heard this song,
As the smiling sinners flock'd along:-
"Long life to the Bishops, hurra! hurra!
For a week of work and a Sunday of play
Make the poor man's life run merry away."

"The Bishops!" quoth Andrew, "Popish, I guess,"
And he grinn'd with conscious holiness.
But the song went on, and, to brim the cup
Of poor Andy's anguish, the fiddles struck up!

"Come, take out the lasses-let's have a dance-
For the Bishops allow us to skip our fill,
Well knowing that no one's the more in advance
On the road to heaven, for standing still.
Oh, it never was meant that grim grimaces
Should sour the cream of a creed of love;
Or that fellows with long disastrous faces
Alone should sit among cherubs above.

Then hurra for the Bishops, &c.

"For Sunday fun we never can fail,

When the church herself each sport points out; There's May-games, archery, Whitsun-ale,

And a May-pole high to dance about.

Or, if chance we be for a pole hard driven,
Some lone lank saint, of aspect fell,

With his pockets on earth, and his nose in heaven,
Will do for a May-pole just as well.
Then hurra for the Bishops, hurra! hurra!
A week of work and a Sabbath of play
Make the poor man's life run merry away.”

To Andy, who does n't much deal in history,
This Sunday scene was a downright mystery;
And God knows where might have ended the joke,
But, in trying to stop the fiddles, he woke.
And the odd thing is (as the rumour goes)
That since that dream, - which, one would suppose,
Should have made his godly stomach rise,
Even more than ever, 'gainst Sunday pies,
He has view'd things quite with different eyes;
Is beginning to take, on matters divine,

Like Charles and his Bishops, the sporting line,
Is all for Christians jigging in pairs,

As an interlude 'twixt Sunday prayers;

Nay, talks of getting Archbishop H-1-y
To bring in a Bill, enacting duly,

That all good Protestants, from this date,
May, freely and lawfully, recreate,

Of a Sunday eve, their spirits moody,

With Jack in the Straw, or Punch and Judy.

LOVE SONG.

TO MISS

Air.-"Come, live with me and be my love."

COME wed with me, and we will write,
My Blue of Blues, from morn till night.
Chased from our classic souls shall be
All thoughts of vulgar progeny;
And thou shalt walk through smiling rows
Of chubby duodecimos,

While I, to match thy products nearly,

Shall lie-in of a quarto yearly.

'T is true, ev'n books entail some trouble;

But live productions give one double.
Correcting children is such bother, -
While printers' dev'ls correct the other.
Just think, my own Malthusian dear,
How much more decent 't is to hear
From male or female, as it may be,-

"How is your book?" than "How 's your baby?"
And, whereas physic and wet nurses

Do much exhaust paternal purses,

Our books, if rickety, may go

And be well dry-nursed in the Row;

And, when God wills to take them hence,

Are buried at the Row's expense.

Besides, (as 't is well proved by thee,
In thy own Works, vol. 93),

The march, just now, of population
So much outstrips all moderation,
That ev'n prolific herring-shoals
Keep pace not with our erring souls.1
Oh far more proper and well-bred
To stick to writing books instead;

And show the world how two Blue lovers
Can coalesce, like two book-covers,
(Sheep-skin, or calf, or such wise leather)
Letter'd at back, and stitch'd together,
Fondly as first the binder fix'd 'em,
With nought but-literature betwixt 'em.

SUNDAY ETHICS.

A SCOTCH ODE.

PUIR, profligate Londoners, having heard tell
That the De'il 's got amang ye, and fearing 't is true,
We ha' sent ye a mon wha 's a match for his spell,

A chiel o' our ain, that the De'il himsel

Will be glad to keep clear of, one Andrew Agnew.

So, at least, ye may reckon, for ane day entire
In ilka long week ye'll be tranquil eneugh,
As Auld Nick, do him justice, abhors a Scotch squire,
An' would sooner gae roast by his ain kitchen fire
Than pass a hale Sunday wi' Andrew Agnew.

For bless the gude mon, gin he had his ain way,
He'd na let a cat, on the Sabbath say "mew;"
Nae birdie maun whistle, nae lambie maun play,
An' Phoebus himsel could na travel that day,

As he 'd find a new Joshua in Andie Agnew.

Only hear, in your Senate, how awfu' he cries,
"Wae, wae to a' sinners who boil an' who stew!
Wae, wae to a' eaters o' Sabbath-baked pies,
For as surely again shall the crust thereof rise

In judgment against ye," saith Andrew Agnew!

2

Ye may think, from a' this, that our Andie 's the lad
To ca' o'er the coals your nobeelity, too;
That their drives, o' a Sunday, wi' flunkies, a' clad
Like shawmen, behind 'em, would mak the mon mad,
But he 's nae sic a noodle, our Andie Agnew.

1 See "Ella of Garveloch." herring-fishery, but where, as we faster than the produce."

2 Servants in livery.

Garveloch being a place where there was a large are told by the author, "the people increased much

If Lairds an' fine Ladies, on Sunday, think right
To gang to the deevil, as maist o' em do,-
To stop them our Andie would think na polite;
And 't is odds (if the chiel could get ony thing by 't)
But he 'd follow 'em, booing,
1 would Andrew Agnew.

AWFUL EVENT.

YES, W-nch-Is-(I tremble while I pen it),
W-nch-Is-a's Earl hath cut the British Senate, -
Hath said to England's Peers, in accent gruff,

"That for ye all," [snapping his fingers,] and exit, in a huff!

Disastrous news! - like that, of old, which spread
From shore to shore, “our mighty Pan is dead,”
O'er the cross benches (cross from being crost)
Sounds the loud wail, "Our W-nch-Is-a is lost!"

Which of ye, Lords, that heard him, can forget
The deep impression of that awful threat,

"I quit your house!!"-'midst all that histories tell,
I know but one event that 's parallel:

It chanced at Drury Lane, one Easter night,
When the gay Gods, too blest to be polite,
Gods at their ease, like those of learn'd Lucretius,
Laugh'd, whistled, groan'd, uproariously facetious,
A well-dress'd member of the middle gallery,
Whose "ears polite" disdain'd such low canaillerie,
Rose in his place so grand, you'd almost swear
Lord W-nch - Is a himself stood towering there,
And, like that Lord of dignity and nous,

Said, "Silence, fellows, or I'll leave the house!!"

How brook'd the Gods this speech? Ah, well-a-day,
That speech so fine should be so thrown away!
In vain did this mid-gallery grandee

Assert his own two-shilling dignity,

In vain he menaced to withdraw the ray

Of his own full price countenance away,

Fun against Dignity is fearful odds,

And as the Lords laugh now, so giggled then the Gods!

THE NUMBERING OF THE CLERGY.

PARODY ON SIR CHARLES HAN.

WILLIAMS'S FAMOUS ODE,

"Come, Cloe, and give me sweet kisses."

"We want more Churches and more Clergymen."

Bishop of London's late Charge.

"Rectorum numerum, terris pereuntibus, augent.”

Claudian. in Eutrop.

COME, give us more Livings and Rectors,
For, richer no realm ever gave;

But why, ye unchristian objectors,

Do ye ask us how many we crave??

1 For the "gude effects and uteelity of booing," see the Man of the World.

2 Come, Cloe, and give me sweet kisses,
For sweeter sure never girl gave;
But why, in the midst of my blisses,
Do you ask me how many I'd have?

Oh, there can't be too many rich Livings
For souls of the Pluralist kind,
Who, despising old Cocker's misgivings,
To numbers can ne'er be confined.

Count the cormorants hovering about,2
At the time their fish season sets in,
When these models of keen diners-out
Are preparing their beaks to begin.

Count the rooks that, in clerical dresses,
Flock round when the harvest 's in play,
And, not minding the farmer's distresses,
Like devils in grain peck away.

Go, number the locusts in heaven, 3

Ón their way to some titheable shore;
And when so many Parsons you 've given,
We still shall be craving for more.

Then, unless ye the Church would submerge, ye
Must leave us in peace to augment;

For the wretch who could number the Clergy,
With few will be ever content.

4

A SAD CASE.

"If it be the undergraduate season at which this rabies religiosa is to be so fearful, what security has Mr. Goulbourn against it at this moment, when his son is actually exposed to the full venom of an association with Dissenters?" The Times, March 25.

n junior should be bit

By some insanse Dissenter, roaming

Through Granta's halls, at large and foaming,
And with that aspect, ultra crabbed,

Which marks Dissenters when they 're rabid!

God only knows what mischiefs might

Result from this one single bite,

Or how the venom, once suck'd in,

Might spread and rage through kith and kin.
Mad folks, of all denominations,

First turn upon their own relations:

So that one G-lb-n, fairly bit,

Might end in maddening the whole kit,
Till, ah, ye gods, we'd have to rue

Our G-lb-n senior bitten too;
The Hychurchphobia in those veins,
Where Tory blood now redly reigns;
And that dear man, who now perceives
Salvation only in lawn sleeves,
Might, tainted by such coarse infection,
Run mad in the opposite direction,
And think, poor man, 't is only given
To linsey-woolsey to reach Heaven!

1 For whilst I love thee above measure,
To numbers I'll ne' er be confined.

2 Count the bees that on Hybla are playing,
Count the flowers that enamel its fields,
Count the flocks, &c.

3 Go number the stars in the heaven,
Count how many sands on the shore;
When so many kisses you've given,
I still shall be craving for more.

4 But the wretch who can number his kisses,
With few will be ever content.