Could they a body-coachman get
So most preposterously fit,
Who'd undertake (and no rare thing)
Without a head to drive the king.

Mrs. S. Lard! what are those two ugly thing's
There-with their hands upon the springs,
Filthy, as ever eyes beheld,
With naked breasts, and faces swell’d?
What could the

saucy

maker mean, To put such things to fright the queen?

Man. Oh! they are gods, ma'am, which you see, Of the Marine Society, Tritons, which in the ocean dwell, And only rise to blow their shell.

Mrs. S. Gods, d'ye call those filthy men ? Why don't they go to sea again? Pray, tell me, sir, you understand, What do these Tritons do on land ? Mrs. B. And what are they? those hindmost

things,
Men, fish, and birds, with flesh, scales, wings ?

Man. Oh, they are gods too, like the others,
All of one family and brothers,
Creatures, which seldom come a-shore,
Nor seen about the king before.
For show, they wear the yellow hue,
Their
proper

How the folks hollow, hiss, and hoot!
Well-Heav'n preserve the Earl of Bute!
I cannot stay, indeed, not I,
If there's a riot I shall die.
Let's make for any

house we can, Do-give us shelter, honest man.

Mrs. B. I wonder'd where you was, my dear,
I thought I should have died with fear,
This noise and racketing and hurry
Has put my nerves in such a furry!
I could not think where you was got,
I thought I'd lost you, Mrs. Scot;
Where's Mrs. Tape, and Mr. Grin?
Lard, I'm so glad we're all got in.

DAVID MALLET.

BORN (about) 1700.-DIED 1765.

Or Mallet's birth-place and family nothing is certainly known; but Dr. Johnson's account of his descent from the sanguinary clan of Mac Gregor is probably not much better founded than what he tells us of his being janitor to the high school of Edinburgh. That officer has, from time immemorial, lived in a small house at the gate of the school, of which he sweeps the floors, and rings the"bell. Mallet, at the alleged time of his being thus employed, was private tutor in the family of Mr. Home, of Dreghorn, near Edinburgh. By Mr. Home he was recommended to be tutor to the sons of the Duke of Buccleugh, and after travelling on the continent with his pupils, and returning to London, made his way, according to Dr. Johnson, into the society of wits, nobles, and statesmen, by the influence of the family in which he had lived. Perhaps the mere situation of a nobleman's tutor would not have gained such access to a diffident man; but Mallet's manners and talents were peculiarly fitted to make · their way

in the world. His ballad of William and Margaret first brought him into notice. He became intimate with Pope, and had so much celebrity in his day as to be praised in rhyme both by Savage and Lord Chesterfield. In time he was appointed private secretary to the Prince of Wales. Some of his letters in the earlier part of his life express an interest and friendship for the poet Thomson, which do honour to his heart, but it cannot be disguised that his general history exhibits more address than principle, and his literary career is unimportant. Some years before his death he was appointed keeper of the book of entries for the port of London, and enjoyed a pension for an address to the public, which contributed to hasten the execution of Byng-a fact for which, if true, his supposed ancestors the MacGregors might have been ashamed. to acknowledge him.

WILLIAM AND MARGARET.

'Twas at the silent, solemn hour

When night and morning meet; In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,

And stood at William's feet.

Her face was like an April-morn,

Clad in a wintry cloud;
And clay-cold was her lily hand,

That held her sable shroud.

So shall the fairest face appear,

When youth and years are flown: Such is the robe that kings must wear,

When Death has reft their crown.

Her bloom was like the springing flower,

That sips the silver dew;
The rose was budded in her cheek,

Just opening to the view.

But love had, like the canker-worm,

Consum'd her early prime :
The rose grew pale, and left her cheek;

She died before her time.

“ Awake!" she cried, “ thy true love calls,

Come from her midnight-grave; Now let thy pity hear the maid,

Thy love refus'd to save.

« This is the dumb and dreary hour,

When injur'd ghosts complain; When yawning graves give up their dead,

To haunt the faithless swain.

“ Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,

Thy pledge and broken oath! And give me back my maiden-vow,

And give me back my troth.

“ Why did you promise love to me,

And not that promise keep? Why did you swear my eyes were bright,

Yet leave those eyes to weep?

“ How could you say my face was fair,

And yet that face forsake ?
How could you win my virgin-heart,

Yet leave that heart to break ?

Why did you say my lip was sweet,

And made the scarlet pale?
And why did I, young witless maid !

Believe the flattering tale ?

“ That face, alas ! no more is fair,

Those lips no longer red: Dark are my eyes, now clos'd in death,

And every charm is fled.