THE VICAR AND HIS CURATE.-AN EPIGRAM.

As the corpse of the Vicar the Curate was eyeing,

"Oh! muse not, my dear," says his wife," 'bout men's dying."

Very good's the advice," says the Curate, "you 're giv

ing;

For I muse on the dead, but in hope of the living."

MOSES.

THE GENERAL LOVER.

TRANSLATED FROM THE ARABIAN OF ABOU ALY, THE MATHEMATICIAN.

IN

N this age of millinery and metaphysics, of gallantry and instruction, of phantasmagoria and feeling, it is gratifying to observe even our leading people encouraging Philosophy, and priding theniselves

upon

HINTS TO A PRINCE.

131

upon the discoveries they are making in the Arts. In proof of this, we learn, with great pleasure, that in a Literary Society, of rare distinction, the following Premiums have been lately adjudged :

To the Right Hon. S. Perceval, a piece of massive Gold, in the shape of a Crown, for his new Political Lens, by which he has discovered that the Prince of Wales is much older than he thought he was some days ago.

To the Lord Chancellor, a medal, for ascertaining that the using another person's hand and seal, in politics, is matter of mere good-humour and jocularity';

and

To the Right Hon. Mr. Yorke, a Lancaster writingdesk, for his mode of instructing a Sergeant of the Cambridgeshire Militia, in the space of a few hours, in the whole system of naval tactics. All the Lessons executed in Sea-sand for the use of the Admiralty. ACADEMICUS.

MILITARY CREED.

[From the British Press, Feb. 12.]

SHOULD the People inquire-for the question is brief-
How the Army approve their Commander-in-Chief!
The answer, as short, or in peace or in war,
States, he carries Preferment a little too far;

For, when heavy Commissions and Honours come forth,
He orders that baggage to travel-due North!
While the Army are anxious to shorten the work,
And desirous of going no further than York.

HINTS TO A PRINCE.

[From the same]

HOW oft a good Master bad servants bewails,

BREVIS

While his guests will fare better who give them their vails':

But for you, Gracious Prince! how much better 't would be, If, instead of their vails, you would give them valé! \

G 6

BREVIS.

TO LORD STANHOPE.

[From the Morning Post, Feb. 12.]

WHEN lately, my Lord, full of wit and Joe Miller,
Or, what's the same thing, of Tom Tegg's new
"Care Killer,"

It seems you thought proper their Lordships to favour
With the practice and plan of a whimsical shaver,
Who, 'stead of a penny (as goes this rare story),
Exacted three halfpence for shaving each Tory,
This statement you made with such humour and grace,
That all laugh'd--and their mirth we securely may trace

Now, my Lord, a strange change (as perhaps you have heard),

Since your Lordship was witty, has somehow occurr'd;
Which change (though a Bull stares me full in the face),
Is simply an order, no change shall take place:
The consequence is, certain crafty old Fores

Are fore'd both in power and place to have proxies.
This fact, which had baffled the guess of a wizard,
May tickle your Lordship, and stick in your gizzard;
And some have presum'd an idea to harbour,

It might chance to affect in some measure your barber:
As Tories' long faces were once made his sport,
While joy made Whig phizzes uncommonly short,

What has happen'd 't is thought at his system might strike,
And induce him to charge the two parties alike.
Or, to use other words, he his int'rest might see,
In assuming once more, for his motto, O. P.
This, however, you'll say, might be too far to go,
As enough were express'd if he simply put O!
But my motive for writing I've not express'd yet;
Alas! like Lord Grenville, myself I forget.
This is briefly the case; with respect to friend Strap,
I expect that some sneering, some insolent chap,
Some question or other may suddenly ask,
To answer which might prove a difficult task,
Unless you beforehand a proper response

Take care to lay up in your Lordship's wise sconce.

TO LORD STANHOPE.

This fearing (although I am happy to learn,
At once you can almost to any thing turn,

In the book I have nam'd, which so often you quote,
And which, by-the-bye, you have got half by rote),
I have thought it my duty to send a reply,

133

Which, of course, you'll be sure to lay carefully by,
And keep, with your Lordship's next speech, cut and dry.
When the question is ask'd, pray, my Lord, do not stanimer
(I know you won't blush) like a boy with his grammar;
But answer, without any flurry or doubt,

If on this subject any one kicks up a rout :

My Lords, you have little occasion to grin,
Though you're not turned out, we are all taken in :
And as to my tonsor, I'll say, once for all,
He'll not raise the Whig, nor the Tory price fall;

He still charges the same, and contends there's no wrong,
As the beard of the Tory is frequently long.

But the Prince having firmly resolv'd, on reflection,
The Whigs shall not have of affairs the direction,
Has not only given the party a dose,

But shav'd All the Talents' so plaguily close,

That no trouble in dressing their beards be can have,
As, alas none can now hold their heads up to shave."
THE BARBER OF BAGDAT.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING CHRONICLE.

[Feb. 13.]

SIR,

IN

N looking over the papers of my late worthy friend Mr. Scrip, one of the few dealers in loans who understand Horace, I found the following effusion of gratitude, dated about six years back. It is quite at your service to print or throw away; only if you are inclined to let it see the light, you had better first consult a Lawyer. It may be a libel, you know, though neither you nor I can find it out.

Yours, &c.

E. B.

HORACE,

HORACE, Book IV. Ode III. imitated.

THE man whom Pitt with favour eyes,
And sends for, when he wants supplies,
Shall never gain renown by showing
Himself at boxing-matches knowing;
Nor shall the plate his coursers gain
Triumphant on Newmarket's plain;
Nor him shall fame in glorious war
Adorn with riband or with star,
For having giv'n the French a roasting,
And prov'd Imperial threats vain boasting;
But fertile jobs and contracts strange,
The mysteries of Stock Exchange,
"Blest paper-money *," loans divine,
Shall make in City annals shine.
Me gracious London, Queen of towns,
With never-fading glory crowns:
She long has counted me among,
Of amiable rich men, her throng;

And now, with wealth and honour grac'd,
I far from Envy's reach am plac'd.
Enchanter Pitt! whose magic sway

Money and credit both obey;

Whose potent word can make (God knows)
E'en Irus rich as old George Rose !

To thee I owe the rapture sweet,

To hear, while passing Lombard Street,
Young clerks exclaim, in wond'ring tone,
"That's he that took the last year's loan."
That I no longer starve, but see

Crowds for

my

dinners bend the knee, All, all, great Pitt, is due to thee.

* Pope.

}

SHILLINGS