EXERCISE XXV.

THE COUNTRY BUMPKIN AND RAZOR SELLER. P. Pindar.

A fellow, in a market-town,

Most musical, cried razors up and down, And offered twelve for eighteen pence; Which, certainly seem'd wondrous cheap, And, for the money, quite a heap,

That every man would by, with cash and sense.

A country bumpkin the great offer heard ; Poor Hodge,-who suffered by a broad black beard, That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose. With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid, And, proudly, to himself, in whispers said

This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.

'No matter if the fellow be a knave, Provided that the razors shave ;

It certainly will be a monstrous prize.'

So home the clown, with his good fortune, went,Smiling,-in heart and soul content,

And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes.

Being well lathered from a dish or tub,

Hodge now began, with grinning pain, to grubJust like a hedger cutting furze :

'Twas a vile razor !—then the rest he try'd ;— All were impostors. Ah!' Hodge sighed, 'I wish my eighteen pence was in my purse.'

In vain, to chase his beard, and bring the graces, He cut and dug and whined and stamped and swore ; Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed and made wry

faces,

And cursed each razors body, o'er and o'er. His muzzle, formed of opposition stuff, Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff; So kept it-laughing at the steel and suds.

Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws, Vowing the direst vengeance, with clinched claws, On the vile CHEAT that sold the goods.

'Razors ! a vile, confounded dog!—

Not fit to scrape a hog!'

Hodge sought the fellow-found him-and begun— 'P'rhaps, Master Razor-rogue! to you tis fun That people flay themselves out of their lives. You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing With razors just like oyster-knives.

Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave

To cry up razors that can't shave.'

'Friend,' quoth the razor man, 'I'm not a knave:

As for the razors you have bought,-

Upon my soul, I never thought

That they would shave.'

'Not think they'd shave?' quoth Hodge, with wond'ring eyes.

And voice not much unlike an Indian yell,

'What were they made for, then, you dog?' he cries. 'Made!' quoth the fellow, with a smile- to sell.'