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was a Miss-Molly to him! his very looks would rout one of our modern armies; and with that cut and thrust sword of his, sheathed in his eyelids, I believe even our London Militia, with Sir John Eamer at their head, would look a little blue-a scowl would make them ground arms
"With such a furious tempest on his brows,
As if the world's four winds were pent within
His blustering carcass !"!
With all his vagaries he is a fellow of spunk, and, making allowance for his Verba Tragica, 66 confusion, horror, guts, and death," he sings in as martial a style of pleasing apostrophe as any military bard of. my acquaintance; in fact, I feel a little inspired my-self on the occasion, and cannot resist to desire to try an imitation.
ARRAH! Sweet-lips, my jewel, so burnish'd and nice,
Your temper is trusty and biting like spice *;
To see you lugg'd out, and prepar'd for the fight,
Makes my peepers to twinkle with joy and delight.
Like mystical writings or charms, with amaze
We see watery letters inscrib'd on a blaze :
The eye that so boldly your splendour would brave,
Is dazzled and mock'd by the serpentine wave
That is seen on your surface so wildly to run,
Like motes dancing gay i' th' rays of the sun.
In the blood of the foemen when you take a dip,
Your edge a few drops is contented to sip;
While I in the current exultingly swim,
And swill it in goblets fill'd up to the brim..
The belts of old Time your weight have suspended,
Till, gnaw'd by your edge, they require to be mended.
No drop of blood sticks to your keen-cutting edge;
He that draws you, of honour ne'er forfeits the pledge.
Your light, with a smack of the right Usquebaugh *,
All darkness dispels, when for battle you draw.
Och! my Shean, little urchin, so dearly I prize,
Its sheath I could wish were the lids of my eyes.
By your brightness, my honey, in battle I shine;
Your brilliant achievements and glory are minė.
Your clashing and hacking claim greater regard
Than the pipe, flute, and harp, or the song of the bard †.
I carry not you for mere splendour or show,
But for splitting of heads, necks, and ribs, at a blow;
Thus our foes and their armour are destin'd to feel
Me, the stoutest of roysters; you, sharpest of steel:
When I drew you at midnight in Wicklow, the glare
Quick flash'd, like the lightning, as far as Kildare.
THE THREE-TAIL BASHAW AND DOUBLE-
[From the Morning Chronicle, Dec. 31.]
Mithra's setting, Mithra's orient ray,
Tribes of the East their pious homage pay--
Pious, yet prudent-Lo! our Eastern Lord
Can but one half of Mithra's rites afford-
A bag filled with water; a liquor not at all to my taste. + The Arabian Poet has chosen the thought from the original Irish Feast
What stabs and what cuts,
What chatt'ring of sticks,
What strokes on the guts,
What basting and kicks!
What cudgels of oak
Well harden'd in flame,
A hundred heads broke,
A hundred struck lame!
To George the Fourth-not George the Third, repairs; Neglects his evening, says his morning prayers.
ON SEEING THE FOREGOING LINES. Tell us, Sun, the effect of this Prostitute's prayers; Sure, on further reflecting, you kick'd him down stairs. Badrum, Nov. 19. C.L. D.
EXTEMPORE, UPON RECENT DESERTIONS. [From the Morning Post, Jan. 8.]
ÆSAR is sick; but all the Seers declare
The fever 'll fly, and leave him free as air:
What numbers throng to prove their Monarch's Shield !
The fever rages still-they quit the field,
And, meanly thirsting after place and pow'r,
Desert their Master in his trying hour!
Trembling for fear his Royal course is run,
They pay their homage to the Rising Sun.-
Such is the gratitude that Princes find!
And such the baseness of the human mind!
WM. THOS. F-G-D.
THE AUTHOR OF THE BERNE BEAR* TO HIS MUSE,
IN DEFENCE OF HIS TALE AGAINST THE UNMERITED
CHARGE Of republICANISM.
[From the Morning Chronicle, Jan. 11.] -
Facit indignatio versum.
MUSE! though our Bear has not one feature
Resembling any human creature ;
Malice, whate'er we say, or do,
Is torturing four legs into two.
See page 82.
Nay, worse!-She swears, O Nymph Pierian!
Thy vot'ry is an Oliverian :
Though ardent to defend the Throne,
He wars with those bad men alone,
Who in affliction's mournful hour
Usurp their Sovereign's sacred pow'r;
And will (if these corrupted times
Be suffer'd to abet their crimes)
Rob it of many a precious gem,
Ere they restore the Diadem
To Him, on whom, by grace divine,
Its lustre unimpair'd should shine;
To Him! on whom they heap disgrace,
To fortify themselves in Place;
Leaving no dirty work undone,
To set the Mother 'gainst the Son!
Till thrown down Ruin's yawning steep
Shall then an injured nation sleep?
Or let this "foul unnat'ral" strife.
Prey like a vulture on her life?
No! Holland wakes her jealous fears,
And Grenville to her aid appears,
And thunders in th' usurpers' ears;
While Whitbread's patriot strains o'erwhelm
Those pilots who still grasp the helm,
And there for no one reason sit,
But that they are the dregs of Pitt.
[From the same.]
MIRTH'S festive crew assemble to partake
The merry joke, and year-revolving cake;
The sportive feats the Muse shall now relate,
Of Kings, Queens, Doctors, Knaves;-and what their fate.
The Prude this night her character forswears,
A Hussey pert and Madame Flirt appears.
The Quaker prim as Bang-up Dick we view,
And Member of the Four-in-Hand!- A Jew
Next follows, who illuminates the old,
His spectaclsh ish coot, and made of cold!