THE HOUSEMAID.

FROM all the rest your office varies,

Is so exempt from pert vagaries,

I cease to write, as cease to think,—

You cost me scarce one dip of ink.

At least, thanks to the‘ march of Mind,’

( In which so few now lag behind,)

My author's words, if e'er so true,

Are really much too coarse for you.

Fain would I yield all his jocoseness,

And all his wit without his grossness.

Thus, where our Dean seems most in rapture,

I leave out nearly half a chapter;

Checking, in short, his worst inventions,

To‘ carry out’ his best intentions.

In lieu of lying, graces, airs,

Leave mops and pails upon the stairs;

And if some slave break both his shins,

What then care you?— why, just two pins!