When targets clash'd, and bugles rung,
And blades round warriors' heads were flung,
The foremost of the band were we,
And hymn'd the joys of liberty!
LINES ADDRESSED TO LORD MELVILLE ON HIS VISITING NORTH BRITAIN SHORTLY HIS RETIRING FROM OFFICE.
[From the British Prefs.]
FROM public toils, and cares, and ftrife,
Welcome once more to private life,
In Scotia's rude domain;
Enjoy repofe, content, and eafe,
Inhale the health-infpiring breeze,
Nor think of France and Spain.
Far from the Senate and the Throne,
From budget, tax, investment, loan,
Impeachment, expedition;
Peace fhall your eider pillow bind,
And war no more distract your mind,
Nor projects of ambition.
The focial, eafy, joyous hour,
Unknown to pomp, remote from pow'r,
Awaits you in the wild;
Friendship fhall lead you by the hand,
And Caledonia's arms expand
To clafp her favourite child.
Should warfare still your thoughts engage,
To Muirland scenes confine
your rage,
In mimic camp array'd;
Unheard the found of noily drums,
There no Myforean tyrant comes;
Your quiet to invade.
The laurels won at Aboukir,
Deep moisten'd by a nation's tear,
Were Death and Glory's prize;
But where you urge the gay campaign,
No tears the cheek of Friendship ftain-
No Abercromby dies!
G 6
Full happy is the husband
From wedlock once set free!
But he who twice efcapes fo well,
A lucky man is be!
THE COCKNIES PUZZLED
ABOUT THE NAME OF THE NEW BALLET *.
[From the General Evening Poft.]
SAYS
a fine drawling Fop to a bold Volunteer,
T-e pficore's to be acted to-night, as I hear :-
Now John, though an honeft and good-humour'd fellow,
Thought it ftill the firft bleffing of life to be mellow;
Quoth he, "My old regiment I'll stick to no more,
I fhould like to belong to this fame tinfy corps."
MERIT NEGLECTED.
BY J. BANNANTINE.
[From Lloyd's Evening Poft.]
ΕΝ
NGLAND! while fumptuous monuments you raife,
To celebrate your Wits and Heroes' praise,
Why are your Artists in the plan forgot?
'T is to your nation an egregious blot,
That Hogarth, firft of comic painting's art,
Whose pencil lives in ev'ry British heart,
No monumental trophy fhould receive,
No-honour o'er his much-lamented grave.
To Reynolds, of the English fchool the pride,
A monument has hereto been denied.
But, valued Artifts! your great works will raise
To you tranfcendant and immortal praise;
Your merits are exclufively your own;
When of lefs minds all memory is gone,
Your canvas will furvive the most obdurate ftone.
}
[Original.]
TOLD my love, I told her true,
"My fields were fmall, my flocks were few* "
Four bough-pots conftitute my fields,
This but a fcanty harvest yields.
My flocks are centred in my bed,
Beneath an almost rooflefs thed.
Did I not, then, my love tell true,
My fields were fmall, my flocks were few?
DIFFERENT SPECIES OF DRUNKENNESS.
BY THE SAME.
[Original.]
WE HEN George was poor as poor could be,
Drunk as a beggar ftill was he;
Efpoufing then a wealthy dame,
Sudden a fortune to him came :
To drink he now could well afford,
And drunk got daily as a Lord.
CARD-TABLE EPITAPH
ON A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN, WHOSE RUIN BY A CLUBPREQUENTER OCCASIONED HER PREMATURE DEATH.
BY THE SAME.
[Original]
CL
LARISSA reign'd the Queen of Hearts,
Like fparkling Diamonds were her eyes:
But through the knave of Clubs' falfe arts,
Here bedded by a Spade the lies.
HOW TO LOSE A HUSBAND.
BY THE SAME.
[Original.]
BUXOM damfel wifh'd to know
A
How fhe the men fhould treat;
Her friend, a Bishop's lady, faid,
"Juft baffle all you meet."
"Alas!" quoth fhe, "I've tried that art,
My lofs I e'er fhall mourn;
baffled one sweetheart,
Three years
And now am left forlorn."
JUDGE FOR YOURSELF.
BY THE SAME,
[From the Sunday Review.]
Tom to Sue, life! my dear!
66
Ο
I'm fafcinated when you 're near ;
But when you 're abfent from my fight,
No object can procure delight;
I mourn and grieve, I figh and weep,
The livelong night I cannot fleep."
Says fhe, "You 're laughing in your sleeve,‹
Your artful tales I'll ne'er believe;
You never in my absence pine,
But drown your cares in floods of wine;
No female charms to you afford
Joys like the Bacchanalian board;
Your want of fleep is all a fudge;"
Says Tom,
Take half my bed, and judge.”
I OWE YOU ONE.
BY THE SAME.
[Original.]
CHLOE, whene'er her spouse his wit begun,
Was wont to fay, "My dear! I owe you one." Begetting twins, and to his rib's text true, Stephen replied, "My love! I owe you two.”
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