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And now, their minds were resolute to slay
Pigs, and all sorts of monsters by the score,
While each, in prospect, saw his weapon dyed
In some fat grunter's pork-supplying side.

VI.

It is a custom (mind, I don't abuse it)
With those who value Bacchanalian joys,
For every man who has a voice to use it;

That is, to show by screams and other noise
That old age has not doom'd him yet to lose it.
Well, one who dealt in these poetic toys
Was call'd on for a song, and when they'd dented
The table with their knuckles, thus consented.

Is there amongst us one, whose brow

Is clouded with unsocial grief?

I have a ruby nectar now

Can give his wounded mind relief;

While swift through every vein shall flow
The deep dear antidote to woe.

In vain of ocean-girt Bombay,

And all its charms shall zealots tell:

Let Poona bear the palm away

For drinking deep, and living well,
And all the dear delight that lies
In ruby wine or beauty's eyes.

This wine, this wine, when freely quaff'd
Like Lethe's poet-fabled stream,
Can mix oblivion with the draught;
And, as the past were but a dream,
Smooth down the rugged brow of care,
Nor leave one wrinkle frowning there!

He who drinks fairly, need not seek
For rouge's artificial hue;
The red that mantles o'er his cheek

Is brighter and more natural too,
While eloquence shall tip his tongue
As if the dews of Hybla hung

Upon its point-and wit shall pass

With joke and laughter-loving whim, Light as the froth that in his glass

Sparkles and bubbles to the brim; And when his thirsty lips shall drain The goblet up-then fill again.

And bottle thus on bottle still

Shall follow where each went before;

And when he flags, then let him fill
One last one glorious bumper more,
And drink good health, and lovely wife
To all who love the hunter's life.

VII.

The sun is up on Deccan's stony field,

And every ready huntsman's heart beats high;
Imagination sees the wild boar yield

Already doom'd beneath his charge to die.
McCleod, McHutchins, and McGregor wield
Three spears of awful length, right valiantly,
While bold McHutchins, flourishing about,
Had nearly poked McGregor's optic out.

VIII.

The fixt and straining eye; the lips compress'd;
And the face pale with anxious fear, declare
The all-absorbing hopes that fire each breast,
Too great to have one thought of danger there,
Though they might rouse the tigress from her rest,
Or meet the brindled lion in his lair;

But hark!-away! to where yon canes are crushing
Beneath the bristly beast's impetuous rushing.

IX.

Through deep ravines and rocky nullahs dashing;
O'er hill and plain, 'mid swamps and stones and bushes,
Swift as the bolt from bended cross-bow flashing,
Fired beyond thought of fear the huntsman rushes
Through the wide stream that rolls before him plashing;
He checks not his hot speed, while his cheek flushes
With hopes of conquest, as now nearer grown
He dreams the white-tusk'd monster all his own.

X.

1;

Deep in his side the driven spear stood quivering,
The dark blood bubbling from the gory wound
The steely point was fixed his lungs and liver in,
While the huge beast lay helpless on the ground,
And as the last and cold convulsive shivering

That tells of death, his mighty limbs unbound,
His eye glared forth, and one faint struggle more
Had ceased the agonies of the dying boar.

XI.

Oh, man! thou puny and yet powerful thing,
Beneath whose weak, yet all-subduing hand,

The jungle's terror, and the forest's king,

Bite, dying, bite the dust: thy wide command Controls the lordly eagle on its wing,

Rules through the deep, and overspreads the land:

What could the ancient Monarch's Deity,

With all his thunderbolts, do more than thee?

XII.

But what became of our three Scottish friends?
McHutchins (he who erst so loudly swore
He'd have the monster's blood) now slowly wends
His painful way, for ere the chase was o'er
(What little causes lead to mighty ends!)

Fast as his spirits rose, his b- grew sore:Ye sharp-tongued sons of satire, cease to scoff'Twas not his courage, but his skin wore off.

XIII.

McGregor once had near'd his bristly foe

When the big brute turn'd sharp on his pursuer ;
McGregor saw his tusks were long, and so,
Thinking the nearer to the beast the fewer
His hopes of seeing home, prepared to go

The opposite way; his ugly phiz grew bluer
As the hog's grunts behind him grew more loud;
And in his haste he overset McCleod.

XIV.

The victor bagg'd the trophies of the slain,
And all return'd to Poona; the sport ended,
McHutchins, smarting with posterior pain,

Swore till his stock of oaths was all expended, McGregor too, whom conscience prick'd in vain, Kenning that what was done could ne'er be mended, By drinking cured the pains of his disasterMcHutchins did it with adhesive plaster.

XV.

McCleod had got the prickly heat-the which
All who have felt ne'er wish to feel again;

It is a kind of aggravated itch

That makes the sufferer writhe beneath the pain, As if all Oberon's elves were bid to twitch

His red and pimpled body, while in vain. He rubs and scratches, and in terms uncivil Damns the whole country to the very Devil.

XVI.

Dapooree saw him breakfast there one day
Stiff and perspiring in his new-made clothes.
This dreaded heat broke forth, and sad to say
A large mosquito pitched upon his nose
And raised a bump there-dire was his dismay
At some chance question which the Governor chose
To put. Alas! while scratching, he replies,

"I came in the free trader-c-e my eyes!

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Nose swollen: face red and pimpled; strangers staring;
Spirit of Job! 'twould even make thee curse,
Provoke a saint or set a cherub swearing

(Forgive the bold allusions of my verse).
Much more McCleod, who, once on board, opined
He'd left the national disease behind.

ANDROPAIS.

LETTER FROM J. DOCKERY.

MY DEAR ROGER,

Having nothink better to do I sits down to write as I sed in my last all about my black feller sarvants who be all called Boys tho' many on em be a duced deal older than I be. We haven't no made servants, cause this 'ot country makes us white folks so oncommon toory-loorish, there's no standing it. Well fust and foremost comes the Bootler, who is a tall tawney-faced peaked-nosed Parsheeman what wears a roundish cotton kind o' hat without a brim, like a quartern loaf with more kissun croost than upper; he an't got no neckerchief nor stockins but has loose thing-um-doddies, and white petticotes. He be the chap what keeps measter's money and the keys of all the boxes and places, and makes his purkisits of every thing his name's Jem Setjee and as he talks a leetle English him and me be good friends, and he larns me the black language and I larns him. grammar, and he has tould me as a secret that measter has just got a leetle natural gal out of a female black lady whose name is Booboo and who has been living with him a matter of six or seven months in privit in some corner* which is what I never know'd afore, tho' I be purty cute in them 'ere pints at all times; and moreover he says as how that native women only go in the fammily way as

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long as they please which is surprising and accounts for measter's filly-de-joy being sich an oncommon speedy breeder.

The next is a Porty-gie, dresses like one of us and calls hisself a Cristun, because he eats pork and likes liquor, and all breakages in the glass and chaney-ware and all the missing bottles of drink are laid on his shoulders, 'cause he takes a licking so kindly, which is what I'm sure I niver could do, and I'm sartin if Muster Doolittle was to come for to go for to offer for to bullock me in that 'ere way, I should be 'nation apt to let him smell my Tadcaster knookles and try a bellyfull.

Our

Then comes the Messal who be all as one as our Tadcaster boots, only he be Lamp-liter as well as Shoe-black and does leetle odd jobs besides; at least I knows he used to do 'em for me. cook, and the dog-keeper be'ant much like feyther's soapy Sally and Sam Hoggun, but tolerable enough in their way. The Grooms be called Sizes, because they be of all sizes.

I shall now tell you what more I've done and seed since I rote last. First of all there's been a deal of jinketting and joonketting at Baroderer, which is all one as the Lunnun of the Goose-or-rat country, only it be more like lousy Leeds than any place I knows of, being as ow it be full of dirt and nastiness and black folks and such sights o' pigs as never was, who always lives quite in a state

of natur on the people's leavings, and nasty beasts they be for their trouble.

You must know Roger that Hinjee was once in a very barbarous way, just like Ireland be now, and cutting each other's throats every hour in the day and night so as no one was sure of hisself, and might go to bed quite hearty like and get up next moorning a corpse. Well, King Charles the 14th who lived about the time of Noah heard of all these goings on and told some of us to come out and teach the natives to live like Christuns, and So we did, and gived them the whip and spur purty tightish at fust and keeps a double rein upon 'em ever since, which of course is quite right, for if they was once to get the bit between their teeth and break away, I think it would be devil take the hindermost amongst us Europins. The black gentlemen nivir lets their ladies Look out of the ouse but they goes about themselves in carts draw'd by two bullocks which they ties by the horns to the pole of the cart without no traces, and the driver sets on a bit of wood just atween their roomps and has rope reins tied thro' their noses! and with a prick in a short stick with a lether thong they digs the pint into their quarters and off they walks; when they wants 'em to trot they only twists their tails about, but to make 'em show foot and do their goodest, they bawls to 'em as loud as they can bellur, and tickles 'em with their naked toes in the very place where they be made bullocks of; and then they twiddles and twiddles their fingers, like as if playing the piannur, all over their which foondiments, makes 'em cock their tails and gallop like good 'uns. 'Ow our Tadcaster folks would stare at 'un.

Arter we'd had a fortnite's training, our races begin'd, all which you may see in our Bumbay newspapers if you takes 'em in, or as Muster Doolittle says if they takes you in, which be all the same; but bless you I shouldn't have know'd they meant this here course. To be sure the 'orses names were purty correct, but as for the 'counts of the running it was as much like the raal thing as our grandmoother's like my bull poop, which be all owing to the Sakkytary not being Yorkshire, so 'ow should he know anything 'bout 'orse racing. This here's the way it was.

And then some on 'em finished their sweats by scraping their 'orses with silver spoons, rubbing 'em down with hot towels and

buttering their pasterns: 'tis enough to make a man go stark staring mad to look at such rum goings on. 'Owsever I niver says nothing.

Ever since I rote all this, I have been every day to hear the troo doctoring of some very nice people who reads every arternoon all about grace and noo lites and spirits and generation, and so one day one on 'em whose name was Dockery I see you very punctual Muster Bloogo, says to me, Muster at our meetings and attentive to our outpourings which is ten to one in favour of your having bolted from the broad road of sin and the race course, and that you have

We should have been happy to have availed ourselves of the oppor. tunity here afforded us of giving our readers another account of the Guzerat Races done up in a Yorkshire dress, but as honest John's description does not materially differ in point of fact from those already published, and as in describing persons as well as horses he is rather too caricaturish in his sketches, we deem it good policy to omit it.-ED.

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