Behold the martial band

Each a sword in his hand;

These, like veteran troops in battle they wield,
Nor undaunted they yield,

All glorious in the field,

Give the huzzas due

To our valiant crew.

Behold how they toss off their cans full of flip;
Then point, as they eager advance,

Their battering cannon 'gainst proud hostile France.
The Freemen encore with furious applause,

And the Mayor drank a bottle in zeal for the cause, And now is the mace come

To lead him safely home,

When, like another hero, he knock'd the beadle down.

Once long ago,

Ere patent kitchens learnt to glow,
While taverns made the wine,

Our sires, content at twelve to dine,
All stout and hale,

Could on old stingo with a pipe regale.
At length commodious Dolly came,
Inventress of the chop-house fame;

And now each wasteful cook pours spicy store,
Enlarging former luxury

With poignant sauces season'd high,
Gives to pall'd appetite a whet unknown before.
Let turbot yield to haunch the prize,
Or haunch to turbot-Whether ?
Rather with happy compromise
Be both brought in together.
Your voices raise, ye voters pure,
Still echo from the Husting's sure
Your generous Member's name.

Venison unbought to them you owe;
This blessing corporations know;

Who shall their wisdom blame?

Let ne'er this annual feast decline;
And may our meetings all combine
Gratitude, harmony, good cheer, and wine.

PARODY ON ""TIS THE LAST ROSE OF
SUMMER."

'Tis the last glass of claret,
Left sparkling alone;
All its rosy companions
Are swallow'd and gone.
No wine of her kindred,
No red port is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
And gladden my eye.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
This desert to crown:
As the bowls are all empty,

Thou too shalt float down.

Thus kindly I drink up

Each drop of pure red,
And fling the bright goblet
Clean over my head.

So soon may dame Fortune
Fling me o'er her head,
When I quit brimming glasses,
And bundle to bed.

When Champaigne is exhausted,
And Burgundy gone,

Who would leave even Claret
To perish alone?

THE PIOUS PAINTER.

THERE once was a painter in Catholic days,
Like Job, who eschewed all evil,

Still on his Madonnas the curious may gaze
With applause and with pleasure, but chiefly his
praise

And delight was in painting the Devil.

They were angels compar'd to the devils he drew, Who besieged poor St. Anthony's cell;

Such burning hot eyes, such a damnable hue, You could even smell brimstone their breath was so blue;

He painted the Devil so well.

And now had the artist a picture begun,
'Twas over the Virgin's church-door;
She stood on the Dragon, embracing her son;
Many Devils already the artist had done,
But this must outdo all before.

The old Dragon's imps, as they fled through the air,

At seeing it, paus'd on the wing,

For he had the likeness so just to a hair,

That they came as Apollyon himself had been there,

To pay their respects to their king.

Every child, at beholding it, shiver'd with dread, And scream'd as he turn'd away quick;

Not an old woman saw it, but, raising her head, Dropt a bead, made a cross on her wrinkles, and said,

Lord, keep me from ugly Old Nick!

What the painter so earnestly thought on by day,
He sometimes would dream of by night:
But once he was startled as sleeping he lay :
'Twas no fancy, no dream; he could plainly survey
That the Devil himself was in sight.

"You rascally dauber!" old Beelzebub cries, "Take heed how you wrong me again! Though your caricatures for myself I despise, Make me handsomer now in the multitude's eyes, Or see if I threaten in vain!"

Now the painter was bold and religious beside,
And on faith he had certain reliance;
So earnestly he all his countenance eyed,
And thank'd him for sitting with Catholic pride,
And sturdily bade him defiance.

Betimes in the morning the painter arose,
He's ready as soon as 'tis light;

Every look, every line, every feature he knows,
'Tis fresh in his eye-to his labour he goes,
And he has the old Wicked One quite.

Happy man! he is sure the resemblance can't fail; The tip of the nose is red hot;

There's his grin and his fangs, his skin cover'd with scale,

And that the identical curl of his tail;

Not a mark, not a claw is forgot.

He looks, and retouches again with delight; 'Tis a portrait complete to his mind!

He touches again, and again gluts his sight; He looks round for applause-and he sees, with affright,

The original standing behind!

"Fool! Idiot!" Old Beelzebub grinn'd as he

spoke,

And stampt on the scaffold in ire;

The painter grew pale, for he knew it no joke: 'Twas a terrible height, and the scaffolding broke; The Devil could wish it no higher.

"Help! Help me! O Mary!" he cried in alarm, As the scaffold sunk under his feet;

From the canvass the Virgin extended her arm; She caught the good painter, she sav'd him from

harm:

There were hundreds who saw in the street.

The old Dragon fled when the wonder he spied,
And curs'd his own fruitless endeavour;
While the painter call'd after, his rage to deride,
Shook his pallet and brushes in triumph, and cried,
"I'll paint thee more ugly than ever!”

THE ART OF PHYSIC.

A YOUNG apprentice, spruce and smart,
Practitioner of Galen's art,

Disdain'd the labours of the shop,
By no means fit for such a fop.
His master pertly he address'd:
"Pestles and mortars I detest;
Sir, I despise those tools of trade,
For hands of vulgar mortals made.
I was not born to cast up bills,
To serve out purges, plasters, pills:
No, Sir; by pharmacopic laws
I long to gain the world's applause,
My bosom pants for wealth and fame,
And W-

-'s town shall hail my name."