Now Killworth's Lord march'd out to fight,
And rob Dan Pole of breath;
Resolv'd to teach this waltzing Knight
The deadly Dance of Death;

Who, mounted on his dappled horse,
But slowly reach'd the plain,
In hope that, shaking hands across,
They might dance back again.

For on the Common he did say,
"A plain so green all o'er
Should not, on such a luckless day,

Be made one red *' with gore!"

They should have met at crow of cock,"
The time bold fighters like;
But where's the use of cock, or clock,
To one not prone to strike ?

Dan Pole now talk'd about a glove,
Which none could understand,
While Killworth rav'd about his love
For the Fair Lady's hand!

'Mid this colloquium, peace I wot
Was seal'd by fates above;
So down from Wimbledon they trot,
Close friends as hand and glove!

The Lady Fair, of rich renown,
When told this truce was made,
That her just sentence might be known,
Thus humorously said:

"Of bloodshed, then, I'm free from guilt,

(Who did not wish to win 'em ;) For not a drop could there be spilt,

If they had none within 'em!

"Making the green one red."-The mis-reading of this passage in Shakspeare is well remembered. The true text and true sense have been restored, and the correction is highly valuable; but it would have been too much to have had a practical illustration of it by reddening the green of Wimbledon Common,

"Now

ON A DANCING POET, IN Love.

"Now from my train each doughty Knight
Be banish'd speedily;

For love of Gold if they 'd not fight,
They'd not-for love of Me!"

So prosper long our Regent Prince,
And all his subjects true,

That when our noble youths do wince,

No bloodshed may ensue !

ON A DANCING POET*, IN LOVE.
[From the Morning Chronicle, Aug. 13.]

TFW-1l-ley's head has no more brains,
Than poetry his verse contains ;.
If W-1-ley's legs be deftly wise
In proving where his genius lies;
How fit, when all his suit advancing,
To rest the issue on his dancing!
For otherwise, could Pole succeed,
With such a Muse and such a head?-
So W-1-ley P-e a-dancing goes,
And flirts away with all his toes,
And jigs so fine, and jigs so smart,
He'll dance his way into her heart,
And captivate her longing soul

As she whirls round her dancing Pole.
Then, Pole where'er the Fair you meet,
Oh! shake your legs to show your wit;
Show her, in spite of nature's rigour,
Your only way to make a figure:
And while they cut and caper so,
Be sure you let the Lady know,
Your legs can cut more fine and true
Than e'er your wit was known to do.
Go-heed not what a rival feels,
And woo the Lady with your-heels!

*See page 273.

303

GRIEVANCE

GRIEVANCES OF NOBODY.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING CHRONICLE.

[Aug. 17.]

I

SIR,

HAVE for a long time suffered greatly by the injustice of mankind; crimes and follies have been alleged against me by the very persons who asserted my innocence and my wisdom; and the reward of approbation has been withheld by those who in the same breath have confessed that my conduct was meritorious. Fermit me humbly to specify a few of the grievances I have, thus far, patiently endured; and while, Sir, you cannot fail to observe the strange and Judicrous perplexity in which those who make free with my name are constantly involved, you will, I am convinced, feel disposed to admit that I am an object of compassion, and, at least, do me the favour to represent my case to the public, by giving this address a place in one of the columns of your valuable Journal.

So various are the charges brought against me, aud so numerous the instances of neglect and malignity I have experienced, that I must resign all idea of methodical arrangement in drawing up this appeal, and rely on your candour to forgive the confused and desultory air which my letter must necessarily assume. Without further preface, I proceed to inform you that I stand accused

Of being in the secrets of Buonaparte, and of knowing what he will do next.

Of admiring the style and sentiments of the Courier and Morning Post.

Of believing that the Duke de Cadore did write what has been recently published in his name.

Of thinking that Bank of England Notes are not depreciated in value.

Of

GRIEVANCES OF NOBODY.

305

Of wishing the ruin of this great and energetic nation, and victory to her enemies.

Of having personal acquaintance with the Devil, and a violent wish to go to him.

Of reading Rosa Matilda's Novels.

Of writing a better Poem than Milton's immortal Epic.

Of having seen His Royal Highness the Regent forget his dignity;

Heard Doctor D-g-n make a polite speech in favour of toleration; and

Observed Mr. Secretary C-k-r embarrassed by modesty.

Of being dead and alive at the same moment.

Of wishing the failure of the Petition for Catholic Emancipation.

Of going to the country when no one goes there, and staying in town when every one has left it.

Of being more corpulent than the late Mr. Daniel Lambert, and as thin as the edge of a razor.

Of bearing what is intolerable; keeping my temper when out of humour, and being silent whenever I speak.

It is by no means unusual to hear a fellow swear that I can swim on dry land, pay my debts without money, and eat at one meal twice as much pudding as I can get. I am said to have more wit and genius than Mr. Sheridan, and also to be as thick-headed as Earl Cn. It is at one and the same time averred, that I look more like a cut-throat than the Baron de G-, and yet that, with a bull-face and bandy legs, I am genteel and handsome.

I am acknowledged by several to excel Kemble in acting, and to sing better than Catalani; and, notwithstanding this, that I have a worse conception of tragedy than Liston, and a voice more harsh than that of a jackass, or Lord

I am

I am also said to be in two places at once; and to be exceedingly partial to the present illustrious Administration.

Not to encroach too much on your indulgence, I shall, for the present, take my leave; assuring you, Sir, that I am infinitely more a friend to you than to myself.

Aug. 10, 1811.

NOBODY.

Swan Tavern, near St. Martin's Lane.

A

PANTHEON THEATRICALS.

[From the British Press, Aug. 19.]

GRAND Hudibrastic drama, entitled, The Paper War, has been got up at this House, the prin cipal characters by the performers whom we have already criticised, in introducing them to public notice. This piece has a good deal of resemblance to Family Quarrels, only that it wants an overture. The music is discordant; and to listen to the band, one can easily perceive that many notes are wanting; not but that there are a sufficient number of sharps, but the flats are wofully deficient. The piano and affettuoso movements are most natural, though there is considerable merit in the largetto and andantino parts. The critics say, that Mr. Greville plays troppo presto; but he defends his style as moderato, and accuses his rivals of playing base. We cannot take on ourselves to criticise with sufficient minuteness this momentous subject, but merely state the tenor of it to the world, that they may judge for themselves who are right among these professors.

The proposed Entertainment of The Children in the Wood, by babes not exceeding seventeen years of age, is not to be persisted in, owing, as we understand, to the interference of the Right Rev. Father in

God