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ple by threats of edged tools, and dark inuendoes, we should first know our men, for the same sort of paragraph that might suit Sir J. Farrington, will not be found to terrify Mr. Cox, and a vapour about an edged tool, was very unskilfully applied to the Doctor-and to be candid with you Con., I fear between them you'll be put into a strange quandary. In order to avert the misfortunes likely to be the result of your imprudence, I had purposed to write two letters to Mr. Cox and the Doctor in your behalf, as I have a fellow feeling for all squibbers; but when I heard that they had vowed vengeance against you, I thought my interference would be unavailing: but if they do not, fret you to death before Michaelmas-day next, I will become your mediator with them in the October Maga

zine.

I was a few nights back at a carman's-inn in Thomas-street, where I met a man who gave me a long history about you, not one word of which I believe. He said that you were caught on the mountains of Cunnamara, and brought to one MARTIN O'BlusTEK, who tamed you, and made you fit for, society, that you served him in the different stations of foot-boy, butier, valet-dechambre, and major domo; that like my Lord Duke, in High Life below Stairs, you learned to ape the manners of the great, that you became his flying stationer and amanuensis, that you turned squibber, that having read Ovid's Metamorphoses, you became greatly enamoured with the charac ter of PROTEUS, and strove to imitate him, that you were to be found at one time the accuser of political versatility, again a fee'd weathercock yourself: at another time in the shape of a paragragh, as long as a ship's cable, at another time in the pages of a preface, composed of plagiarisms from HUME and GIBBON. At another time with the eyes of an Argus, in the columns of the

CURE FOR THE GOUT.

A Mr. PILLY, of Upton, in Essex, a gentleman in years, and who used to be laid up annually, for some months, with a violeat fit of the Gout, was induced to try the virtue of the Load-stone, as a remedy against that excrutiating disease. He procured one, which he had formed into a convenient

shape, and suspended it from a black ribbon round his neck, next his skin, sewed in a little flannel-case. It was about two

inches long, an inch and a half broad, and two-tenths of an inch thick. Its magnetic power was considerable. He wore it con stantly, night and day for many years, with out any return of his pains, except now and then a slight twitch to remind him of

the terrible paroxysms to which he was once subject. He however, to try whether he could with impunity lay aside the use of it, discontinued to wear it for some months, when one night he awoke in tor ment he immediately called for his safe guard, threw it about his neck, and escaped with a slight attack. He continued to wear it ever after, and enjoyed perfect freedom from all the pain inflicted by his old enemy. This magnetic Amulet ruch resembled a piece of slate, such as school-boys learn to cypher on. Mon. Mag. Feb. 1810.

This simple and accessible remedy has been tried by several persons in Dublin and other parts of Ireland with consider able effect. The load-stone is prepared in Mr. Thos. Saunders, Mathematical Instru a proper manner by a person in Dublin.ment-maker, Church-lane, near College green.

EPIGRAM.

An traż teidimgo tig an óil,

Hibernian Journal threatening desolation Gebim póg air mo éhol afteac,

to poor Watty Cox; at another time encouraging the publication of slander, in order thereby to assist in promoting the sale of a News-paper; at another time-here,

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Con. he was out of breath, and I was out buailtear Preab an mo toin

of patience-I took him seriously to task
for presuming to tell lies, and talk disres
pectfully of you, and was very near getting
my head broke on your account. If Cox
and the Doctor should cause an overflow-
ing of your bile, and that it terminates in
a mortal disease, remember me in your will,
who am, dear Con.,
yours, 'till death,

Aug. 91, 1810.

JACK SQUIB.

amaċ.

TRANSLATION.

When to the ale-house I repair,
A kind reception meets me there,
If well my purse be lin'd;
But when exhausted all my store,
I'm rudely jostled out of door,
And get a kick behind.

ORIGINAL POETRY.

FOR THE IRISH MAGAZINE.

MR. COX,

The following Verses were composed on the occasion of the Emperor of France assisting the people of Antwerp to refit the Cathedral, which had been despoiled during the Revolution. I will be much obliged by some of your Correspondents giving an English translation of it in perse.

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Templum Augustum, ingens venerabile Post tot dissidia et codes, tot bella, dosœclis,

Vastarat demens, et scelerata manus, Hoc nunc Napoleon Cæsar, populusque refecit

Pulchrius et formā, quam fuit aute, nitet.

lores,

Nunc fruitur tandem Gallia Parta-Bonā.

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THE COTTAGE OF THE HILL

By P. O'KELLY, Esq. addressed to Mrs. IRWIN, of Cottage, near Loughrea.

Enraptured the Parnassian choir,

With melody attune the lyre,

Each breast with joy to fill;
And celebrate the happy spot,
Where care and sorrow are forgot,
The Cottage of the Hill,

The leading graces all unite,
To fix the empire of delight,
Thro' forest, lawn and rill;
For Eden's beauties are displayed,
When th'eye of taste has once surveyed,
The Cottage of the Hill.

This Paradise of every sweet,
By Anne is rendered sweeter yet,
For she, with care and skill
Perfection's path at will can trace,
With genuine merit still to grace,
The Cottage of the Hill.

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IRWIN-this cot's enlightened host,
At festive board a reigning toast.
Arrests the poet's quill;
Since those prime virtues of his kin,
Adorn without and grace within,
The Cottage of the Hill.

A sportsman true, as man of sense,
Who neither gives nor takes offence,
And gains mankind's good will;
His actions tend to eternize,
A scene replete with all we prize,
The Cottage of the Hill.

To celebrate this happy pair,
The grateful muse, with heart sincere, →→
Shall never cease, untill
Ordained by institute divine,
Beloved and honored they resign,
The Cottage on the Hill.

THE TOUCHSTONE OF TRUTH.

Our starving IRISHMEN and BANKRUPTS shew,

The wicked plans of PERCEVAL and Co

X.

MR.

MR. COX,

The following Ode of Anacreon to the Dove, has been translated by so many able hands, that an attempt to render it may appear presumptuous. Dr. Johnson said that he began the translation at fifteen, and did not finish it to his mind till he was seventy years of age. Mrs. Pilkington has done it, I have seen a good translation of it by Counsellor Comerford, a man whose modesty has deprived the world of some excellent compositions, whose merits he could not see as being his own, Moore's translation has those embellishments that please generally, but they are his own, not Anacreon's, viz. The Nymph of Azure Eye; Essence of the balmiest Flowers; Faithful Minion; Dulcet Numbers, &c. I have endeavoured to preserve the sense, which, I believe, will be doing as much justice to the original, as if I dressed it in the tawdry appoint,

ments of Mr. Moore,

Beauteous bird, my lovely dove,
Whither do thy pinions move?
Whence that fragrance dost thou bring,
Largely scatter'd from thy wing?
Who art thou, thy business tell,
To that youth whom none excel;
Who concenters all his joys,
Rivals all Anacreon's bays,
Drives to jealous love the fair,
Vows of constancy I bear.
One sweet sonnet to reward;
Venus gave me to the Bard;
Various tasks he gives to me,
Soon he says he'll make me free:
But what wish have I to rove,

Over mountain, hill or grove,
Perching on the forest tree,
Fed by fruit that there may be ;
Snatching it, I now am fed,
By Anacreon's choicest bread,
And to drink when I incline,
I can sip the poet's wine :
Frolic round when joyous made,
With my wings my master shade;
And with frolic when I tire,
Drop asleep upon his Lyre.
All my history you know,
Prythee let a pratler go;
On my Errand now I fly.
You have made your Dove a Pye.

JACK IN OFFICE! or, my Foster Father's Old Night-Cap New, TRIMMED. Tune-Let the Toast pass.

1.

Some thirty years since, in the days of our dads

When yellow-mug Jack was a tight chap, In his Molesworth-street Coal-hole, he skulk'd from the lads,

Whilst Paddy roar'd "Pull down his
night-cap;"

For he was the Hack,
That never was slack,

With tares and burthens to break Erin's back!

2.

And soon he may find there's the devil to

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If to Paris Jack went to show Tally the Job,
Morbleau! how his Budget would fright
Nap!

Bill Pitt smel't his worth, and soon took Tho' faith I much fear his Financial Nob

him in pay,

And Bill at a bribe was a bright chap,

"Here Jackey" says Bill," take your seythe, cut away

"And i'll stuff with hard guineas your night cap:

"For I know you're a hack

"That will never be slack

"With taxes and burthens to break Erin's

back.".

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Would soon make a drop in his night-cap!

What a fate for the hack

That never was slack

With taxes and burthens to break Erin's back! 5.

Then Jack take advice-you've to gold been a slave,

To RUIN you're driving us right slap, Repent, or you'll die, as you've liv'd-a dd knave,

And to h** caper off in your night-cap,
A good riddance Old Hack,
For you never was slack
With taxes and burthens to break Erin's
back!

THE

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SÚNG AT THE BUNKER-HILL CELEBRATION OF AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE, JULY 4, 1810,

Tune

Kind Heaven returns the glorious morn
That hail'd these States a nation born,
Thus rank'd with kingdoms of the world,
From Briton's throne the sceptre hurl'd.
Nature and Nature's God design'd
Freedom and Peace should bless mankind,
But Kings and Lords their power employ,
These sacred blessings to destroy.
What man who boasts COLUMBIAN birth,
Will bow to Tyrants of the Earth,
Our rights our independence yield
With richest blood of Martyrs seal'd ?
Whilst Freemen nery'd, with martial glow,
In fields of danger stak'd the foe,
ADAMS and GERRY sign'd the deed,
Columbia's sons from bondage freed,
When proud Burgoyne with threat'ning
sword,

High in his proclamation soar'd,

Brave STARK reveng'd our countrys cause, Bound fast this British Lion's paws.

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Those patriot Sires who met their doom Address you from the mould'ring tomb, "Columbians! firm your rights maintain, "Or else we fought and died in vain.

"Swear by that Power who rules the fates,
"Of changing Kingdoms, Worlds and States,
"No Tyrants shall possess your soil,
"No Traitors arts your Freedom foil."
Secur'd by Heavens protecting hand,
As Brethren firm UNITED stand!
With hateful scorn the wretch disdain
Who seeks to break our Union's chain.

May Peace, the darling boon of Heaven
To this long troubled world be given,
Unshackled commerce spread the seas,
Controul'd no more by Man's decrees!!!
May friendship's blest Millennium rise,
Pure as the Sun that gilds the Skies,
'Till HE who reigns thro' years the

same,

Speaks and dissolves all nature's frame.

A NEW

A NEW SONG CALLED

WHO SHOULD IT BE BUT THE MAJOR.
Tune" The Basket of Oysters.”

In the year ninety-eight to sweet Dublin I

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Beside all your friends the triangle i'll

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And they jostled me so, I could scarce keep my feet;

Of one I ask'd what so engag'd her? Says she I am come to see a great villain strung,

Who many poor boys in his bloody time hung,

When down from the shop-board I saw a lad flung,

And who should it be but the Major?

+ One who kept an alphabetical list of Informers in the year Ninety-eight.

The

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