WOULD you that Delville I describe?

      Believe me, sir, I will not gibe;

      For who could be satirical

      Upon a thing so very small?

      You scarce upon the borders enter,

      Before you’re at the very centre.

      A single crow can make it night,

      When o’er your farm she takes her flight:

      Yet, in this narrow compass, we

      Observe a vast variety;

      Both walks, walls, meadows, and parterres,

      Windows, and doors, and rooms, and stairs,

      And hills, and dales, and woods, and fields,

      And hay, and grass, and corn, it yields;

      All to your haggard brought so cheap in,

      Without the mowing or the reaping:

      A razor, tho’ to say’t I’m loth,

      Would shave you and your meadows both.

      Tho’ small’s the farm, yet here’s a house

      Full large to entertain a mouse;

      But where a rat is dreaded more

      Than savage Caledonian boar;

      For, if it’s enter’d by a rat,

      There is no room to bring a cat.

      A little rivulet seems to steal

      Down thro’ a thing you call a vale,

      Like tears adown a wrinkled cheek,

      Like rain along a blade of leek:

      And this you call your sweet meander,

      Which might be suck’d up by a gander,

      Could he but force his nether bill

      To scoop the channel of the rill.

      For sure you’d make a mighty clutter,

      Were it as big as city gutter.

      Next come I to your kitchen garden,

      Where one poor mouse would fare but hard in;

      And round this garden is a walk,

      No longer than a tailor’s chalk;

      Thus I compare what space is in it,

      A snail creeps round it in a minute.

      One lettuce makes a shift to squeeze

      Up thro’ a tuft you call your trees:

      And, once a year, a single rose

      Peeps from the bud, but never blows;

      In vain then you expect its bloom!

      It cannot blow for want of room.

      In short, in all your boasted seat,

      There’s nothing but yourself that’s GREAT.

      “HOW vain are mortal man’s endeavours?

      (Said, at Dame Elleot’s, Master Travers)

      Good Orleans dead! in truth ’tis hard:

      Oh, may all statesmen die prepar’d!

      I do foresee (and for foreseeing

      He equals any man in being)

      The army ne’er can be disbanded.

      I with the king was safely landed.

      Ah, friends, great changes threat the land!

      All France and England at a stand!

      There’s Meroweis – mark! strange work!

      And there’s the Czar, and there’s the Turk —

      The Pope – ” An Indian merchant by,

      Cut short the speech with this reply:

      “All at a stand? You see great changes?

      Ah, sir, you never saw the Ganges.

      There dwells the nation of Quidnunckis

      (So Monomotapa calls monkeys);

      On either bank, from bough to bough,

      They meet and chat (as we may now);

      Whispers go round, they grin, they shrug,

      They bow, they snarl, they scratch, they hug;

      And, just as chance or whim provoke them,

      They either bite their friends, or stroke them.

      There have I seen some active prig,

      To show his parts, bestride a twig.

      Lord, how the chatt’ring tribe admire!

      Not that he’s wiser, but he’s higher.

      All long to try the vent’rous thing

      (For power is but to have one’s swing);

      From side to side he springs, he spurns,

      And bangs his foes and friends by turns.

      Thus as in giddy freaks he bounces,

      Crack goes the twig, and in he flounces!

      Down the swift stream the wretch is borne,

      Never, ah, never to return!

      Zounds! what a fall had our dear brother!

      Morbleu! cries one, and damme, t’other.

      The nation gives a general screech;

      None cocks his tail, none claws his breech;

      Each trembles for the public weal,

      And for awhile forgets to steal.

      Awhile all eyes intent and steady

      Pursue him whirling down the eddy:

      But, out of mind when out of view,

      Some other mounts the twig anew;

      And business on each monkey shore

      Runs the same track it ran before.”

      Is there no hope? the Sick Man said.

      The silent doctor shook his head,

      And took his leave with signs of sorrow,

      Despairing of his fee to-morrow.

      When thus the Man with gasping breath:

      “I feel the chilling wound of death;

      Since I must bid the world adieu,

      Let me my former life review.

      I grant, my bargains well were made,

      But all men overreach in trade;

      ’Tis self-defence in each profession;

      Sure, self-defence is no transgression.

      The little portion in my hands,

      By good security on lands,

      Is well increased. If unawares,

      My justice to myself and heirs

      Hath let my debtor rot in jail,

      For