After a little of this mood,
      And brooding over the departed brood,
  With razor he began to ope each craw,
  Already turning black, as black as coals;
  When lo! the undigested cause he saw—­
      “Pison’d by goles!”

  To Mrs. W.’s luck a contradiction,
  Her window still stood open to conviction;
  And by short course of circumstantial labour,
  He fix’d the guilt upon his adverse neighbour;—­
  Lord! how he rail’d at her:  declaring how,
  He’d bring an action ere next Term of Hilary,
  Then, in another moment, swore a vow,
  He’d make her do pill-penance in the pillory! 
  She, meanwhile distant from the dimmest dream
  Of combating with guilt, yard-arm or arm-yard,
  Lapp’d in a paradise of tea and cream;
  When up ran Betty with a dismal scream—­
  “Here’s Mr. Burrell, ma’am, with all his farmyard!”
  Straight in he came, unbowing and unbending,
      With all the warmth that iron and a barbe
      Can harbour;
  To dress the head and front of her offending,
  The fuming phial of his wrath uncorking;
  In short, he made her pay him altogether,
  In hard cash, very hard, for ev’ry feather,
  Charging of course, each Bantam as a Dorking;
  Nothing could move him, nothing make him supple,
  So the sad dame unpocketing her loss,
  Had nothing left but to sit hands across,
  And see her poultry “going down ten couple”.

  Now birds by poison slain,
  As venom’d dart from Indian’s hollow cane,
  Are edible; and Mrs. W.’s thrift,—­
  She had a thrifty vein,—­
  Destined one pair for supper to make shift,—­
  Supper as usual at the hour of ten: 
  But ten o’clock arrived and quickly pass’d,
  Eleven—­twelve—­and one o’clock at last,
  Without a sign of supper even then! 
  At length the speed of cookery to quicken,
  Betty was called, and with reluctant feet,
      Came up at a white heat—­
  “Well, never I see chicken like them chicken! 
  My saucepans, they have been a pretty while in ’em! 
  Enough to stew them, if it comes to that,
  To flesh and bones, and perfect rags; but drat
  Those Anti-biling Pills! there is no bile in ’em!”

LORD MACAULAY.

(1800-1859.)

LXII.  THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN’S TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE.

    This is one of the numerous jeux d’esprit in which Macaulay, in
    his earlier years, indulged at election times.  It was written in
    1827.

  As I sate down to breakfast in state,
    At my living of Tithing-cum-Boring,
  With Betty beside me to wait,
    Came a rap that almost beat the door in. 
  I laid down my basin of tea,
    And Betty ceased spreading the toast,
  “As sure as a gun, sir,” said she,
    “That must be the knock of the Post”.