Go down to Margate, wisest of law-makers,
And say unto the sea, as Canute did,
(Of course the sea will do as it is bid,)
“This is the Sabbath—­but there be no Breakers!”
Seek London’s Bishop, on some Sunday morn,
And try him with your tenets to inoculate,—­
Abuse his fine souchong, and say in scorn,
“This is not Churchman’s Chocolate!”

Or, seek Dissenters at their mid-day meal,
And read them from your Sabbath Bill some passages,
And while they eat their mutton, beef, and veal,
     Shout out with holy zeal,—­
“These are not Chappet’s sassages!”
Suppose your Act should act up to your will,
Yet how will it appear to Mrs. Grundy,
To hear you saying of this pious bill,
    “It works well—­on a Sunday!”

To knock down apple-stalls is now too late,
Except to starve some poor old harmless madam;—­
You might have done some good, and chang’d our fate,
Could you have upset that, which ruined Adam! 
’Tis useless to prescribe salt-cod and eggs,
Or lay post-horses under legal fetters,
While Tattersall’s on Sunday stirs its Legs,
Folks look for good examples from their Betters!

Consider,—­Acts of Parliament may bind
A man to go where Irvings are discoursing—­
But as for forcing “proper frames of mind,”
Minds are not framed, like melons, for such forcing!

Remember, as a Scottish legislator,
The Scotch Kirk always has a Moderator;
Meaning one need not ever be sojourning
In a long Sermon Lane without a turning. 
Such grave old maids as Portia and Zenobia
May like discourses with a skein of threads,
And love a lecture for its many heads,
But as for me, I have the Hydra-phobia.

Religion one should never overdo: 
Right know I am no minister you be,
For you would say your service, sir, to me,
Till I should say, “My service, sir, to you.” 
Six days made all that is, you know, and then
Came that of rest—­by holy ordination,
As if to hint unto the sons of men,
After creation should come re-creation. 
Read right this text, and do not further search
To make a Sunday Workhouse of the Church.

THE LOST HEIR.

    “Oh where, and oh where
    Is my bonny laddie gone?”
    Old Song.

One day, as I was going by
That part of Holborn christened High,
I heard a loud and sodden cry,
That chill’d my very blood;
And lo! from out a dirty alley,
Where pigs and Irish wont to rally,
I saw a crazy woman sally,
Bedaub’d with grease and mud. 
She turn’d her East, she turn’d her West,
Staring like Pythoness possest,
With streaming hair and heaving breast,
As one stark mad with grief. 
This way and that she wildly ran,
Jostling with woman and with man—­
Her right hand held a frying pan,
The left a lump of beef. 
At last her frenzy seemed to reach
A point just capable of speech,
And with a tone almost a screech,
As wild as ocean bird’s,
Or female Banter mov’d to preach,
She gave her “sorrow-words.”