The Universal Reciter Part 39

_Lizzie._ We will, we will.

_Miss P._ Only, ladies, avoid whistling.

_Hetty._ Of course, of course.

_Miss P._ And comic songs!

_f.a.n.n.y._ O, certainly.

_Lizzie._ And there is one more thing we shall be sure to avoid.

_Miss P._ What is that?

_Lizzie._ The wearing of red chignons.

[_Exeunt._

THE KNIFE-GRINDER.

GEORGE CANNING.

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going?

Rough is the road,--your wheel is out of order,-- Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in 't, So have your breeches!

Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones, Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- Road, what hard work 't is crying all day 'Knives and Scissors to grind O!

Tell me, Knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives?

Did some rich man tyrannically use you?

Was it the squire? or parson of the parish?

Or the attorney?

Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or Covetous parson, for his t.i.thes distraining?

Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little All in a lawsuit?

(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?) Drops of compa.s.sion tremble on my eyelids, Ready to fall as soon as you have told your Pitiful story.

KNIFE-GRINDER.

Story! G.o.d bless you! I have none to tell, sir, Only last night, a drinking at the Chequers, This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were Torn in a scuffle.

Constables came up for to take me into Custody; they took me before the justice; Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish- Stocks for a vagrant.

I should be glad to drink your Honor's health in A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence; But for my part, I never love to meddle With politics, sir.

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

I give thee sixpence! I will see thee hang'd first,-- Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance-- Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, Spiritless outcast!

[Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.]

PREACHING TO THE POOR.

Father Taylor once said, "'Tis of no use to preach to empty stomachs."

The parson preached in solemn way, --A well-clad man on ample pay,-- And told the poor they were sinners all, Depraved and lost by Adam's fall; That they must repent, and save their souls.

A hollow-eyed wretch cried, "_Give us coals!_"

Then he told of virtue's pleasant path, And that of ruin and of wrath; How the slipping feet of sinners fell Quick on the downward road to h----, To suffer for sins when they are dead; And the hollow voice answered, "_Give us bread!_"

Then he spoke of a land of love and peace, Where all of pain and woe shall cease, Where celestial flowers bloom by the way, Where the light is brighter than solar day, And there's no cold nor hunger there.

"Oh," says the voice, "_Give us clothes to wear!_"

Then the good man sighed, and turned away, For such depravity to pray, That had cast aside the heavenly worth For the transient and fleeting things of earth!

And his church that night, to his content, Raised his salary fifty per cent.

THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED.

BY C.B. SOUTHEY.

Tread softly--bow the head; In reverent silence bow; No pa.s.sing bell doth toll, Yet an immortal soul Is pa.s.sing now.

Stranger! however great, With lowly reverence bow; There's one in that poor shed, One by that paltry bed, Greater than thou.

Beneath that beggar's roof, Lo! Death doth keep his state; Enter--no crowds attend; Enter--no guards defend This palace gate.

That pavement, damp and cold, No smiling courtiers tread; One silent woman stands, Lifting with meagre hands A dying head.

No mingling voices sound-- An infant wail alone: A sob suppressed--again That short, deep gasp, and then The parting groan.

Oh! change!--Oh! wondrous change!-- Burst are the prison bars-- This moment there, so low, So agonized, and now Beyond the stars!

Oh! change--stupendous change!

There lies the soulless clod!

The sun eternal breaks-- The new immortal wakes Wakes with his G.o.d!