[Most of the following pieces are derived from a Scrap-book formerly in Moore's possession, containing newspaper cuttings of his political squibs, with his own manuscript corrections, as prepared for the collected edition of his Poetical Works, from which edition they appear to have been omitted, either by accident or for some temporary reasons which no longer exist.]

(Written while half-tipsy over a solitary dinner, on the 17th of March, 1813.)

THOUGH solus here I pick my bone,
And drown my shamrock all alone,
Yet ne'er the worse for that
I'll fill and drink (to make amends)
Both to and for all absent friends
To honour thee, Saint Pat!

And, faith, to thee I'd rather quaff

Than

any saint on Heaven's staff That ever Pope gazetted;

Because to thee we Irish sinners,

Who love to sprinkle well our dinners,

Are

very deep indebted.

There's good St. Swithin-had he given (Instead of water) wine from heaven, For forty days together,

Then truly, for a moist set-in,

Six weeks of wet would not have been
Uncomfortable weather.

But oh! the liquor, gemm'd with beads,
That in my glass this moment reads
The Riot Act, so frisky!—

Sweet Pat, if e'er, in humorous vein,
Thou takest it in thy head to rain,
For Heaven's sake rain whiskey!

I wonder what in censure's way
The devil's lawyer had to say

Against thee, Pat-what had he?
The worst that Eldon's self could prose,
(The devil's lawyer, he, God knows!)
Would be to call thee Paddy.'

6

But, let them call thee what they will,
Through life I'll love thy worship still,
And when my race is over,

Let shamrocks crown my bed of sleep,
Let whiskey-dew the shamrocks steep,
And friends say round me, while they weep,
'Here lies a Pat, in clover!'2

THE TWO VETERANS.

'Hectora quem laudas, pro te pugnare jubeto,
Militia est operis altera digna tuis.'-OVID.

OH! wine is the thing to make veterans tell
Of their deeds and their triumphs-and punch does as

well -

As the Regent and Blücher, that sober old pair, Fully proved t' other night, when they supp'd-you know where,

A person called the devil's advocate, employed at the canonization of saints to blacken the characters of those chosen for that

And good-humouredly bragg'd of the feats they'd been

doing

O'er exquisite punch of my Yarmouth's own brewing. This difference there was in the modes of their strife, One had fought with the French-t' other fought with his wife!

'How I dress'd them!' said Blücher, and fill'd up, sublime

'I, too,' says the Prince, have dress'd men in my

time.'

Bl. One morning at dawn

Reg.

Zounds, how early you fight! I could never be ready (hiccups); my things are so

tight!

Bl. I sent forward a few pioneers over night

Reg. Ugly animals these are, in general, I hear (hiccups)—

The Queen, you must know, is my chief pioneer.

Bl. The foe came to meet us

Reg.

There I manage better, The foe would meet me, but I'm d-d if I'll let her. Bl. Pell-mell was the word-dash thro' thick and

thro' thin

Reg. Carlton House to a tittle!-how well we chime in!

Bl. For the fate of all Europe, the fate of men's rights,

We battled

Reg.

And I for the grand fête at White's!
Bl. Though the ways, deep and dirty, delay'd our

design

Reg. Never talk of the dirt of your ways- think of mine!

Bl. And the balls hissing round

Reg.

Oh! those balls be my lot

Where a good supper is, and the Princess is not.
And for hissing-why, 'faith! I've so much every day
That my name, I expect, in the true Royal way,
Will descend to posterity, GEORGE LE SIFFLÉ!'1

Bl. But we conquer'd, we conquer'd-blest hour of my life!

Reg. And blest moment of mine, when I've conquer'd my wife!

Here the dialogue falter'd; he still strove to speak; But strong was the punch, and the Regent's head weak;

And the Marshal cried Charge!' and the bumpers went round,

Till the fat toilet-veteran sunk on the ground;

And old Blücher triumphantly crow'd from his seat
To see one worthy potentate more at his feet.

THE BISHOP AND MIGUEL.

A RECENT CORRESPONDENCE.

WHO, false alike in war and peace,

Hath nothing done but cheat and fleece,
His brother bilk, and rob his niece?

Who, on his way to all this evil,
In London look'd so sweet and civil,
In Lisbon pitch'd us to the devil?

My Miguel.

My Miguel.

Like Louis le bien-aimé, Louis le désiré, &c.