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The following simple story contains nothing of fiction. The butcher, whose name was Catton, lived nearly opposite the present residence of our mutual friend, C. Lofft, Esq. at Troston; and the accident happened at the farm now in the occupation of Mr. Mothersole, at Sapiston, Suffolk. Yours, &c.




"TWAS June, the sun was towering high,
When bees collect their yellow store,
A butcher's steed, with drowsy eye,
Stood waiting at a farmer's door.

Fast went his master's tongue within,

The mug, perhaps, was in his hand;
For many a tale would he begin,

Would go, and stay, and drink, and stand.

A beehive near, that instant fell,
The angry swarm by thousands rose,
Where o'er the pales, sad tale to tell!
Lay poor old Dobbin's harmless nose.

Quick vengeance sounded on their wings,
They saw their realms in ruins lie,
And darting forth their dreadful stings,
All leagued to punish or to die.

At once they roar'd round Dobbin's head,
He snapt his bridle, kick'd, and flung,
And furious down the pasture fled,
They, just as furious, round him clung.

Unstrapt, the jolting baskets fell,

And on he ran with all his might;
But how, or where, not long could tell;
His strength of limb out-lasted sight.

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Help came from cottage, field, and farm,

Children in terror gather'd round;
With many a bough they lash'd the swarm,
And trampled hundreds on the ground.

Not one the less there seem'd to be,

Nor was their spite one moment stay'd;
On, on they went to victory,

And ev'ry gazer stood dismay'd.

His throat inflam'd with many a wound,
Stretch'd out, he heav'd his panting side,
Till breath no more a passage found;
-Such was the death that Dobbin died!

O'er his poor beast the butcher wept-
The good old man was mov'd to tears!
And hence, perhaps, my heart has kept
This tale from childhood's early years.


Written by the late Thomas Dermody, in the twelfth Year of his Age.
Now breathes along the vale a keener breeze,
Now smokes the chimney bosom❜d in the trees,
The frugal rush-light thro' the lattice gleams,
And twilight chequers on the dusky streams;
While, lonely, o'er the furrow'd plain I roam,
And seck, behind yon hill, my little home,
Where dimpled love upbraids my lingering stay,
And childhood fears my devious foot astray-
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How solitary sweet thy beauties, Eve,

When noise and sport the darkling landscape leave;
Thy tender, temperate glow of soften'd day,
Thy gleams that melt in blushing tints away,
Meek hand-maid of the Sun, thy charms I woo,
And 'mid thy glooms the soul of Wisdom view-
Whose shadowy hand directs to Musing's cell,
Where Peace retir'd, and hermit Silence dwell,
Lulling to rest Reflection's aching head,
From worldy revels, worldly torments fled!
The bleating fold, the shepherd's distant song,
Loud carol'd round his hearth to rustic throng;
The lover's flute in mellower cadence fade,
And call a gentler echo from the shade;
While shelter'd safely from the dewy sky,
Rock'd in their leafy beds, the plumy people lie.
Now mad Debauch thro' tow'ring cities


Startling the labour'd artist's short repose,
And Pride's bright torches, flashing thro' the air,
Like meteors sparkle in the stately square;
Nor heeds full Pride the pallid groupes that lye
Discarded, and shrinking from the curious eye,
Tho' at the dawn grim Death himself may come,
And hurry from the palace to the tomb.
Precarious pomp! how insolently frail
To the poor pleasures of my native vale,
Where Vice, nor grim Remorse can dare to spring,
Nor guileless Plenty feel Oppressions sting:
Happy the hamlet round, no ruffian voice
Unseals the slumb'ring lid, with ruder noise,
Save when the watch-dog bays the fleeting beam
Of the moon, glimm'ring in the stilly stream;
Or, herald of the morn, the shrill cock crows,
Or, at the gate, the early heifer lows!
For them approaches night, a source of care,
To aid the poison'd bait, the murd❜rous snare:
For us, when clouds the misty meadows sweep,
She only brings the balmy boon-of sleep,
Calm-vision'd sleep, that can at once control
The languid body, and the restless soul!



By Mr. Pratt.

COOL lookers-on, dear girl, they say,
Can better judge than those who play
Howe'er they cut or shuffle;

And we who thus behind them stand,
Could mark the turns of every hand
In yonder pasteboard scuffle.

But while the party round us sit,
Striving each other to outwit,
In amicable strife,

Ó be it mine, sweet maid, to tell,
How you may learn to play as well
The arduous game of life.

Oft have the grave or sportive bards,
Man's skill in conduct, and in cards,

By verse and prose made common;
But, bending low at Vesta's shrine,
I shall the apt allusion twine

Into a wreath for woman!

Di'monds and hearts, and queens and kings, And thrones and crowns are idle things

To woman's well-earn'd prize,

But ah! a soft, insidious band,
Arm'd cap-a-pie, around her stand
Dire foes in friendship's guise.

And though more brilliant the rewards
That wait on fortune's lucky cards,
Full hard are they to play;

For all that mints or mines e'er gave
To fortune's or to fashion's slave,

One trick may throw away.

Such is, alas! the female doom,
Gamblers of every kind will come,
And practise all their arts;
And when they fairest seem to deal,
The foulest purpose they conceal,
To vanquish virgin hearts.

Gay knaves, who swear by all the names
That best express the purest flames

Of friendship and of love;

Who seem with all the truth to glow
That honourable souls can know,
A pack of shufflers prove.

As interest leads they follow suit,
Concede the honours, or dispute,
Encourage or provoke;

Yet, so adroit they play their parts,
E'en while they try a thousand arts,
You'd think they ne'er revoke.

With caution then, my dear, begin,
Since prudence may those honours win
That rashness would forego;

Virtue, Eliza, counts her gains,
With all her penalties and pains,
Successful vice is woe.

Her liberal countenance declares
Eliza open to the snares

Which art and nature play,
And that ingenuous air of truth,
That fair simplicity of youth,
Is oft the villain's prey.

Avoid the rude ill-manner'd carle,
Who thinks plain dealing is to snarl;

The downright clown's a brute :
Yet worse than he, the sullen slave,
Who tho' a dumme, glouts a knave,
A tyrant, tho' a mute.


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