THE MAJOR! ! ! ! ! ! In Ninety-eight, when things ran high, And men were hanged, no man knew why, Who loudest then did havoc cry? The Major. When Christians' blood distained their backs, From scourge of anti-christian blacks, Who urged those hangmen Orange hacks? The Major. Who, when he prowled each Dublin street, Made ague fits seize whom he'd meet? Who told informers what to swear, And when this perjured dread blackguard, The Major. And when poor Jemmy lost his life, And finding worldly business bad, The Major. The Major. -Air-" Chaleendhas croothe na moe,” 2 But soon, (the cold winter being over,) Darling Summer returns again; All nature now vies to discover, Her gladness to usher her in. So, Erin, though now she's assaulted, By tyranny's keen wint'ry blast ; To her rank shall again be exalted, T'enjoy Freedom's Summer at last. I am Your's, truly, &c. SHAMROCK. • The reader may perceive the Tyranny of Bonaparte is here alluded to. will. Oh! men how base! whose ev'ry thought is pelf! Who love a Pension, more than God himself! Great in Taxation! in Finance only great! In splendor revel on a Bankprupt State! To feed the flame of war in ev'ry clime, Explore Peru, exhaust her flaming mine. Exhaust the subject, blot from ev'ry hand, The mark of coin, with Paper flood the Jand. Prone on the ground! behold industry lie! "And lend Corruption lighter wings to fly." T' prefer the shadow to the substance, hence Surprised, behold the country overflow, With English goid, alas! and Irish woe? See Adam's sons in field of battle hurled, And hungry death, devouring half the world. When Man, in vengeance, seeks the life of Man, Without even knowing whence the cause began. "Tis horror all! nor longer can you trace The Maker's image in the human face. Each thought is hell, each look is black despair, And Satan only reigns in vengeance there. Yet, some there are, whose interest 'tis to see This scene of war, and wanton cruelty; How, with indifference, what torrents fell, 1 Of blood and tears, which they themselves did sell. A Taxing crew, that live on public woe, Whose trade is war, nor any other know. War! war! on every tongue! on every ear, One gains a Thousand, another Ten, a year; 'Tis life to Jobbers, to Contractors life, 'Tis death to business, cause of public strife; The pride of knaves, the Public Robbers pride, A cloak for Lordly hypocrites to hide ; The cause of every plague, that rages round The ball of life, in war alone is found. Oh! for the happy days! when Ireland saw Kind Nature only, dictating her law : In darkness tyrants slept, without a ray, 'Till base corruption brought them forth to day. Better that science never did explore Our little Isle, with either sall or oar; Or, that a ship had never yet been seen From mountain-top, or lovely hill of green. Happier by far, when our own country bread Our daily food, nor Indian dainties fed. Full in our prime, when Pembroke reached our shore, Sent by the fiends, our Eden to explore.; 4 B 3 And And sighing, longed to see her heavenly charms Pollute each grace, in his unhallowed arms! Till then, the child of nature, free as air, A CARLOW FRIEND THE FOUR AND TWENTY MAJORS-A NEW SONG, They joined impotent C――gh, Who robb'd us by night and by day, &c. And they said 'twas time all to turn rogues, therefore to plunder they did go. 6 There were four and twenty Orangemen all in a row, &c. There was VERNON that lives at Fork hill, Who would not a Papist's blood spill, And CLAUDIUs that never did drill, His bloodhounds a Croppy to kill, And Jack the dog Apothecary, That ne'er of sland'ring is weary, Who was born an incendiary, They'll all die as French dancers merry, Because they joined the Majors three, who said to plunder they would go. 7 There were four and twenty Magazines all in a row, &c. There was the great Major's history, And there's the riding-house that Jack Where Horish the sweep's blood was spilt, And yeoman with blacksmith did tilt, There is Watty's advice to the Judge, Where they call'd him a triangle drudge, And Doctor Drumsnuffle the Quack, And he who the "Painter" did crack, All found in this volume sublime, Who said 'twas time to be alert, and then to plunder strait did go. TO THE EDITOR OF THE IRISH MAGAZINE. SIR, When I attempted the following Metrical Versions, it was far from my intention to subject them to public examination, my only object was to fertilize the barren moments of unproductive leisure, and convert my propensity to poetical attempts into a source of temporary gratification. I was convinced of the inadequacy of my callow muse, to enco inter the censorious scrutiny of CRITICAL inquisitions, and consequently determined to confine it within the pale of my most intimate a quaintance, who, stimulated either by motives of friendship or commiseration, might overlook the imperfections of peurile deficiency. The two following Essays were, as usaal, submitted to their inspection, but the approbation with which it has been honored, was greater, than any of my prior visits towards Parnassus have heretofore received. Some of my friends have been even so jocose, as to pumper me with a few of the delicacies of flattery, among others, they advised me to give them publicity, and this communication convinces you, that my vanity has been a victim to their silken allurements. The insertion of them in the nert number of your celebrated Magazine, would confer an obligation, which shall not fail of being sensibly felt by the translator. Their defects, he presumes, you will be inclined to overlook, when he informs you, that he has not as yet travelled beyond the precints of boyhood, and, assuring you, that should these coups d'essai meet with your approbation, of which their translation shall be sufficient testimony, you will hear from him again, Prefixed by Thomas Moore, Esq. to his Version of Anacreon, translated into English Metre, similar to that which he himself adopted in his translation. On golden beds of blushing roses, While round him curl the waves of bliss, One armed his harp, with th' arrow's smart, To drive its pleasures to the hart. When they thy verses' magic drink, What joys do harps or lyres entomb, womb, That your pen writes in those themes, Cloud not your brow with foul displeasure, In pleasures christal surges swimming, Kilkenny, Oct. 25th, 1810. I. E THE THE PRAISES OF WINE. The following is the version of an Ode, written, in imitation of the style of Anacreon, by an Author of the tenth century, a piece, bearing a very vivid resemblance to the features of the great original, and never before translated. Arm my pen with Taein fire, Give me muse to strike the lyre, To wake Anacreon's slumb'ring shell, Whilst I on Bacchus' praises dwell. Let genius in my pen abide, I sing the grape's luxurious tide, Whose golden floods and sparkling juices, Burst bounding thro' the purple sluices, Beneath whose wave is buried sorrow, And all concern about the morrow. Lydus bids us trouble shun, We'll drink the Goblet's gushing tear, The vintage now unchains its springs, Are symbols sad, that youth is faded, Shake off the burthen time imposes, Then arm my pen with Teian fire, Kilkenny, Oct. 25th, 1810, I. F. SIR, TO MR. COX. By inserting the following trifles in your excellent Magazine, you will much gratify your admirer and friend, Church-street, Oct. 18th, 1810. EXTEMPORE, P. P. On receiving a smelling bottle from a beautiful young Lady, which she kept in her bosom. Let me kiss thee, pretty toy Can'st thou tell me tales of joy? ORIGINAL IRISH, And pour your favours round that head, To honor, love, and friendship dead. On that snowy breast to lie, You grant what I with crowns would buy, No more, O! Fortune! should I fear thy frown, Deójrajó ríor, gan sgje gan fhof, Nor change my station for Britannia's crown. P. P. TRANSLATION, Restless exiles, as they roam, Manajd a Tjr, fa noŕċas, Still languish, for their native home. THE |