MOORE'S IRISH MELODIES TRAVESTIE.

No. XI.

THE LICENTIOUS LORDLING'S SOLILOQUY.

AIR—' Oh! had we some bright little Isle of our own." On! had I some nice little lass of my own,

In a cool shady bower, far off and alone,
I'd rifle her charms, though her tears ran in showers,
And banquet on kisses, as bees do on flowers.
"Tis my pride and delight

The fair sex to betray;
To innocence blight,

And lead virgins astray:

For, oh! to be thought a lewd dog while I live,
Is worth the best joys that life elsewhere can give.
Though my breast be polluted with many a crime,
Though I'm reckoned the veriest fool of my time,
Yet I'm sure to succeed, when I try to ensnare,
For the fair sex are frail—aye, as frail as they're fair.
Then talk not to me

Of virtuous blisses;
I'll rove like the bee,

And live upon kisses:

My life shall resemble a long and dark night,
For nothing by day yields SHAM PETER delight.

EPITAPH

IN GUILDFORD CHURCH-YARD.

READER, pass on, ne'er waste your time
On bad biography and bitter rhyme ;
For what I am this cumbrous clay insures,
And what I was-is no affair of yours.

THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN SAUNDERS;

SHOWING HOW HE WENT FURTHER THAN HE INTENDED, AND CAME SAFE HOME AGAIN.

MR. JOHN SAUNDERS, a remarkable soft spoken mild young man, of demure carriage, and rather respectable appearance, was placed at the bar, under anot very violent-suspicion of having stolen a horse; but it turned out that the suspicion was groundless, and, that, instead of John Saunders stealing the horse, the horse stole John Saunders.

It appeared that as Mr. Stephen Marchant, of Turnham-green, was riding quietly homewards from Town, between eight and nine o'clock in the evening, his horse got a pebble in one of his feet, which made him go lame, and Mr. Marchant alighted to extract it. Whilst he was busied in this operation, who should come up to his assistance but John Saunders, with a large white band-box in one hand, and an umbrella in the other. Mr. Marchant accepted his help with many thanks; and John Saunders setting down his band-box, began grubbing away at the unlucky pebble with the spike of his umbrella, whilst Mr. Marchant held up the foot of the horse; and he grubbed and grubbed at it, so earnestly that, at last, the spike of the umbrella broke off as short as a carrot. Well, what was to be done now? Why, Mr. Marchant, thinking he could knock out the pebble with a large stone, asked John Saunders to hold the horse, whilst he looked for one; and John Saunders readily undertook to do so; but, whilst he was groping about for the stone, he saw, to his utter astonishment, John Saunders on the back of the horse, and scampering away

towards Kensington, as if the deuce was in him-his umbrella tucked close under his arm, and his great white band-box banging about, from side to side, like mad, as he said. Mr. Marchant stood aghast for a moment, and then followed, crying "stop thief! stop thief!" with all his might. Every horseman on the road, with the horse-patrol, and many foot passengers scampered after him, and the hue and cry resounded far and wide :

Stop thief! stop thief!—a highwayman! "Not one of them was mute;

"And all, and each, that pass'd that way,

"Did join in the pursuit.

"And still, as fast as he drew near,

"'Twas wonderful to view,

"How in a trice the turnpike men

"Their gates wide open threw."

-Tramp! Tramp! away he went through merry Kensington, down Phillimore-place, dashing by Holland-house, and so away for Hammersmith, with a continually increasing rabble rout at his heels. -But he gained upon them at every bound, of his steed, shot through Hammersmith-gate with the rapidity of lightning; and wheeling round to the left, down Fulham-lane, he got so far a-head of his pursuers, that they could see nothing but the bobbing of his great white band-box, as it went bobbing and swinging from side to side. Down Fulham-láne, however, they followed him, slap-bang!-and on they went, halloving and hooting, through mud and through mire, through fog and moonshine, 'till at last he took a desperate leap over a fence of a ploughed field, and when they came up to the gap, even the bobbing of his band-box was invisible-in plain terms, he fairly tipped 'em the double❞—he was vanished, and

Mr. Marchant having thus lost his horse, was under the annoying necessity of getting home how he could. On the following morning he repaired to town, to give notice of his loss to the police; and almost the first object that caught his eye on getting into Piccadilly, was John Saunders-still mounted on his Bucephalus ; but without either band-box or umbrella. He looked

at John Saunders, and John Saunders looked at him; and they drew near to each other-by instinct, as it would seem. Having conglomerated, John Saunders offered him his horse again -telling him he had "mounted it by accident," and it ran away with him; that he wished it at the d almost, for taking him so far from home; and that he was come to town for the sole purpose of advertising in the newspapers for the owner. Having told the astonished Mr. Marchant all this, he dismounted; gave the bridle-rein into Mr. Marchant's hand, and then produced the manuscript of his intended advertisement; but Mr. Marchant having no idea of a man's "mounting a horse by accident," seized John Saunders by the collar, and gave him in charge to one of the passing patrol, who brought him to the office.

So far was Mr. Marchant's statement of the affair; and, he having concluded, John Saunders was called upon for his defence.

John Saunders, as we have already stated, was a remarkable mild, quiet young man; and he told a story or rather a story was drawn out of himbit by bit, of which the following is the substance :He resides with his mother at Alfred Cottage, Clapham-common- is himself in the glass line (and truly, he seemed as transparent as glass)-but is, at present, out of business. On the afternoon preceding the night

on which he met Mr. Marchant and his horse, his mamma sent him to her milliner's, at Kensington, to bring home a bonnet and feathers, which she had sent there to be" done up." He went to Kensington → called upon a friend, who gave him some Scotch alewent to the milliner, who put the bonnet and feathers in a large white band-box, and he was quietly returning home to Clapham with it, when he fell in with the gentleman and his horse with a pebble in his foot. But he wished he had never fallen in with them; for he had been made very miserable by it. He offered his services to get the pebble out, and spoiled his umbrella; he undertook to hold the horse, while the gentleman looked for a stone, and the Scotch ale having got into his head, he supposed induced him to get upon the horse's back-quite contrary to his intention. The horse ran away with him directly-directly contrary to the way he wished to go he was hurried along in a dreadful manner, he knew not whither, 'till the horse stopped at Brompton; and then he found that the large white band-box was worn almost to tatters by its excessive agitation on horseback, and that one of the feathers of his mother's bonnet was sadly broken. He then considered, within himself, that it would be impossible to find the gentleman to whom the horse belonged that night, and having bought a new band-box for his mother's bonnet, he rode home to Clapham, put the horse in a butcher's stable, gave it some corn, had his own supper, and went to bed dreadfully tired. In the morning he got up early, wrote an advertisement about the horse, and was coming into town to put it in the papers, when he met the gentleman, who was very angry with him, and gave him into custody..