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11.

14 And recollect the dull Drumsnuffle Let bolder game attack your forceful creed,

spear, And whilst he spoke, he three times In combat shine with some harden d stager, snuffed a piach;

Whose vanquishment, when sung will Were it not for my pills you long had sooth your ear, died;

Dick Annesley, Claudius, Jemmy, or the Now fee me with a stab at Keogh and Major. Clinch.

15. 12.

The dancing dog-man now my pea Should I return to Cunnamara coast,

employs, The wrath of Smugglers bilked, my life In harsh critique—the cash he'll soon lay ' await ; !

down, My shins in Dangan kitchen could I roast, And when his dollars my just rage So long to parlour used-good food and destroys, state.

To soften your's I'll send you balf a crown

16. Oh! Watty, Watty, pity little Con, Pity a scribbling bravo Dagger-man, A starving, upstart, drivling pimp like Whom vanity and wages made your foe; me ;

Who lives by scribbling the worst lies Who barter female character upon,

he can, Is not a louse that should be cracked by 'Gainst male or female--honest men and thee. .

Keogh.

13.

THE MAJOR!!!!!! In Ninety-eight,, when things ran And when this perjured dread blackguard, high,

His Dagger in men's guts did lard, And men were hanged, no man knew Who hid him in the yard ? why,

The Major. Who loudest then did havoc cry?

And when poor Jemmy met his trial,

The Major. Who swore to every charge denial, When Christians' blood distained their Which Judge and Jury b'lieved a lie all? backs,

The Major From scourge of anti-christian blacks, And when poor Jemmy lost his life, Who urged those hangmen Orange hacks ? For murderous zeal, in loyal strife,

The Major. Who robbed blood money from his wife? Who, when he prowled each Dublin

. The Major. street,

And finding worldly business bad, Made ague fits seize whom he'd meet? To heavenly shifts recourse then had, And quaver make them loose their feet? Who turning Methodist ran mad? The Major.

The Major. Who told informers what to swear, Who raving stuff on tubs and benches, And naught for God, or Devil care, To ballad-singers, bawds, and wenches, Nor youth, nor innocence to sparc? Of head deranged, suspicion clenches? The Major.

The Major. Who dearly the bold Jemmy loved,

And who is that, all folks do tell, And no one act he e'r reproved,

Who have their catechisms well, Nor him from high command removed? Whene'er he dies will go to hell? The Major.

The Major.

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Man;

THOUGHTS ON WAR AND ENGLISH CONNECTION.,

(Continued from page 503 of our last.) To swell the pride of those that hold Surprised, behold the country overflow, • the helm,

With English gold, alas! and Irish woe? The vessel sinks, and with it, sinks à See Adam's sons in field of battle Realm.

hurled, For private piques 'twixt Ministers of And hungry death, devouring half the State,

world. A Nation's blood, alone, must arbitrate. When Man, in vengeance, seeks the life Tho' mighty men, so luxuriously fed,

of Man, Will fighi by proxy, just as Princes wed; Without even knowing whence the cause, Collect whoie Nations to the field of fire,

began. Behold the fight, from Palace or from 'Tis horror all ! nor longer can you trace spire ;

The Maker's image in the hunian face. Stretch in the rays of Magisterial smile, ! Each thought is hell, each look is black Like alligators, on the banks of Nile;

despair, Breath but in Courts, on Prince and Prin. And Satan only reigns in vengeance cess wait,

there. Neglect the Nation, give it up to fate; Yet, some there are, whose interest 'tis Grown on Royalty to an enormous size;

to see And prove their talents only telling lies; This scene of war, and wanton cruelty; For looking on, ten thousand pounds a How, with indifference, what torrents year,

fell, Raised by the Orphan's, and the Widow's Of blood and tears, which they themselves tear;

did sell. Stupid with Power, without the art to A Taxing crew, that live on public woe, scan,

Whose irade is war, nor any other know. The rule to govern, or comprehend the War! war! on every tongue! on every

ear, And without powers, our energy to wield, One gains a Thousand, another Ten, a Weak in the Council ; shameful in the

vear; field;

'Tis life to Jobbers, to Contractors life, The sport of Europe ; laugh of every 'Tis death to business, cause of public power;

strife; Our strength exhausting each succeeding The pride of knaves, the Public Robbers hour,

. pride, Host on host, on regiment, regiment, still A cloak for Lordly hypocrites to hide ; For foreign service, 'tis their Lordships: The cause of every plague, that rages will.

round Oh! men how base! whose ev'ry thought the ball of life, in war alone is found.

Oh! for the happy days! when Ireland Who love a Pension, more than God

saw himself!

Kind Nature only, dictating her law : Great in Taxation! in Finance only great! No Junto then exisied in the Realm, In splendor revel on a Bankprupt State! The hand of Justice only steer'd the helm; To feed the fame of war in ev'ry clime, No wily Minister, no Corporation, Explore Peru, exhaust her Naning mine. Usurped the lights, and freedom of a Exhaust the subject, blot from ev'ry

Nation; hand,

In darkness tyrants slept, without a ray, The mark of coin, with Paper flood the 'Till basc corruption brought them forth Jand.

to day. Prone on the ground! behold industry B etier that science never did explore lie!

Our liirle Isle, with cither sail or oar; “ And lend Corruption lighter wings to Or, that a ship had never yet been seen

From mountain-top, or lovely bill of T'prefer the shadow to the substance, green. hence

Happier by far, when our own country Betrays a want of less than common bread sense.

Our daily food, nor Indian dainties fed. How must the Exile, forced by Tyrant Full in 'our prime, when Peinbroke hand,

reached our shore, To seek existence in a foreign land, Sent by the fiends, our Eden to explore; i 4 B3

And

is pelf!

fly.”

And sighing, longed to see her heavenly Till then, the child of nature, free as air, charms

I ord of himself, and held his manor there; Pollute each grace, in his unhallowed to splendor then, no military Power !!! arms!

Nor planted centinel, to tell the hour. (To be Continued.)

A CARLOW FRIEND,

THE FOUR AND TWENTY MAJORS-A NEW SONG,

Tune Four and twenty Fidlers all in a Row.''
1.

They joined impotent Cogh,

Whó robb'd us by night and by day, &c. There were four and twenty Majors all in And they said 'twas sime all to turn roques, a row,

therefcre to plunder they did go. Four and twenty Majors all in a row. The first was a desperate Robber, The second became a horse jobber,

There were four and twenty Orangemen The third was a Custom-house swabber,

all in a row, &c.

There was VERNON that lives at ForkOf tea spoons and gold cups a fobber.

hill, They said 'twas time to be alert, therefore

Who would not a Papist's blood spill, to plunder they did go.

And (LAUDIU: that never did drill, 2.

His bloodhounds a Croppy to kill, There were four and twenty hangmen all And Jack the dog Apothecary, in a row, &c.

That ne'er of sland'ring is weary, There was walking gallows, Hepenstall,

Who was born an incendiary, Whom Satun from this land did call,

They'll all die as French dancers merry, And the Big Banker better than all,

Because they joined the Majors three, who Who is for hangman full tall.

said to plunder they would go. They said the Majors were alert, and strait to plunder they did go.

There were four and twenty Magazines - 3

- all in a row, &c. There were four and twenty Louth Mow.

There was the great Major's history, ers all in a row, &c.

Which all men in Ireland do see, • There was ill-favoured vellow Jack,

And the tale of the fine Jubilee, A merciless tax-making Hack,

With Sir Rubens' neai Gallery, Whose progress in blood you might

And there's the riding-house that Jack track, From C- to TALLENSTOwn back.

Where Horish the sweep's blood was He said 'twas time to be alert, therefore

spilt, the Papists he would mow.

And yeoman with blacksmith did tilt,

And for pike makiag many kilt, 'There were four and twenty State Robbers There is Watty's advice to the Judge, all in a row, &c.

Which made him go on with such fudge, There was impotent C- rh,

When- to Abbey-street stern he did Who robbed us by night and by day,

trudge, And bribed rogues their trust to Where they call'd him a triangle drudge, betray,

There's the story of Louth Mowing Who gave Ireland's freedom away,

Jack,
For which we will every one pray, And Doctor Drumsnuffle the Quack,
That hembe hang'd without delay, With Catspaw the Dagger hack,
By the lir Bunker better than all,

And he who the “ Painter.did crack, Who is for a hangman full tall.

There's from the beginning of time, That said the Majors were aleri, and strait A record of every soul crime, to plunder they did go.

Which Orangemen wrought in this

clime, There were four and twenty Methodists All found in this volume sublime, all in a row, &c.

And Watty says with poignant pen, There was PERCIVAL the Swadling He'll lacerate the Orangemen, canter,

And from their gloomy Castle den, Whom joking George Canning did He certainly will rout again, banter.

The four and twenty Majors, all in a And WILBERFORCE, the Saintly ranter,

row, &c. I Wiwd free the black negroes " ina Who said 'twas time to be alert, and then stanter,

to plunder strait did go.

built,

TO THE EDITOR OF THE IRISH MAGAZINE. Sie, .. When I attempted the following Melrical 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, une convert my propensity to poetical attempts into a source of temporary gratification. I was convinced of the inadequacy of my callow muse, to encounter the censorious scrutiny of CRITICAL inquisitions, and consequently determined to confine it within the pale of my ' most intimate a quaintance, who, stimuluted either by motire's of friendship or commiseration, night wverlook the imperfections of peurile deficiency. The two following Essays were, as usital, submitted to their inspection, but the approbation with which it hus been honored, was greater than any of my prior visits towards Parnassus have heretofore received. Some of my friends have been even so jocóse, as to pamper me with a few of the delicacies of flattery, aming oihers, they advised me to give them publicity, and this communication convinces you, th i mij vanity has been a victim to their silken allurements. The inscrtion of them in the mert number of your celebrated Magazine, would confer an obligation, which shall not fail of biing's nsibiy felt by the translator. Their defects, he presumes, you will be inclined to overlook, when he i forms you, that he has not as yet travelled beyond the precints of boyhood, ani, 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, Subscribes himself, your obedient Servant,

I. F-g.
THE ODE.
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Meluwele uut 1.020 W. Profixed 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 blusling roses, What joys do harps or lyres entomb, Stript of care, the Bard reposes,

What's chamber'd in the goblets The Minstrel of the Teian muse,

womb, While 'round him stream mirth’s balmy That your pen writes in those themes, dews,

And gluts itself with luxury of dreams, , While round him curl the waves of bliss, And why, devote to barren pleasure, And pregnant lips his fingers kiss.

Wisdom's wealth neglect to treasure ; The blissful loves, in blooming choir, Forget the key-path to the bower, Assembles round the Teian Sre.

Where blooms fair Wisdom's sov'reign One arined his harp, with th' arrow's Tower ; smart,

Cloud not your brow with foul displeasure, To drive its pleasures to the hart.

Replies the Bard of Teian measure; With roses, burning from the grove, On me, unskill'd in Wisdom s laws, Another silv'ry lilies wove,

Tho', Goddess, men have pour d applause; And 'round the Sages milky locks,

Tho' Wisdom's sons proclaim me wise, Plants the bloom of Now'ry flocks,

Yet lodge not anger in thine eyes. Baths his soul in tides of blisses,

When in love's knotty ineazes tangling, And locks his lips with sealing kisses. A prey to Cupid's wily angling, But Wisdom, heiv'n's replendent queen, To Bacchus and the Lyre I owe, From grcat Olympus' spangled scene, And females 'round, a truce with woe. Saw Anacreon, drench'd in pleisure, My heart, with Bacchus billows brimSaw the loves, around their treasure,

ming, And spoke, while anger's infant streak, In pleasures christal sørges swimming, And kindly smiles light up her cheek; Turns ev ry note to Cupids Lyre, Sage, (for men thy praise thus breath, And burns with loves despotic fire, Aud 'round thy brow 'twine wisdom's Bound by Cupid's blisful chain, wreath,

lų bends beneath his single reign. When they thy verses' magic drink, Thus 'raptured with the balm of life, Sage, 'mortals with Anacreon link.)

Averse to storms conflicting strife, Why has life's now'r exhal'd each sweet, If I'm not Wisdom's genuine child, At the love's and Bacchus feet?

Who's wisdom's offspring justly styled. Could not thy muse embark her pinion,

'I. P. On the atmosphere of my dominion? Kilkenny, Oct. 25th, 1810.

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,

The vintage now unchains its springs, Give me muse to strike the lyre,

Alike to subjects and to kings; To wake Anacreon's slumb'ring shell, The crimsoni wave to youth's cheek rushes, Whilst I on Bacchus' praises dwell. And blushes clust'ring mount on blushes. Let genius in my pen abide,

The vernal cheek, that burns with roses, I sing the grape's luxurious tide,

When Bacchus beams, new flames discloses. Whose golden floods and sparkling juices, And seniors, round whose temples steals Burst bounding thro' the purple sluices, The tresses, stamp with age's seal, Beneath whose wave is buried sorrow, Whose brows, with snowy curtains And all concern about the morrow.

shaded, Lydus bids us trouble shun,

Are symbols sad, that youth is faded, Enough's roll'd by every Sun,

Beneath this tide their years entomb, To-day let all be drownd in pleasure, And clothe their cheek with youthful To-morrow's Sun shall yield its measure, bloom, To-morrow's Sun new joys 'cumber, Shake off the burthen time imposes, Let us then be wrapt in slumber,

And wing the round which youth proOn Bacchus bosom shall we sleep,

poses. Nor tempt Care's ruffled, clam'rous deep. Then arm my pen with Teian fire, Our lips shall plow Lydus' ocean,

And give me Muse, to strike the lyre, We'll bathe each sense with nectar'd Towake Anacreon's slumb'rieg shell, potion;

• Whilst I on Bacchus praises dwell. We'll drink the Goblet's gushing tear,

I. P. For now the vintage gilds the year ; Kilkenny, Oct. 25th, 1810,

TO MR. COX, $18,

By inserting the following trijles in your ercellent Magazine, you will much gratify your admirer and friend,

P. P. Church-street, Oct, 18th, 1810.

EXTEMPORE, On receiving a smelling bottle from a beautiful young Lady, which she kept in her bosom. Let me kiss thee, pretty toy

And pour your favours sound that bead, Can'st thou tell me tales of joy?

To honor, love, and friendship dead. Hast thou, in that heav'nly bed,

So, granting to a senseless toy,
Been with sweets ambrosial fed?

Unconscious of th' estatic joy,
Hast thou glow'd with conscious bliss, On that snowy breast to lie,
At the soul entrancing kiss ?

You grant what I with crowns would buy, Hast thou, in that honey'd seat,

0! might I, in these happy arms, Imbib'd an odour-breathing freight, Hold those bliss-bestowing charms Sweeter than Arabia's gales,

Might I, on that balmy breast, Breathing o'er the perfum'd vales? Be to madding rapture blest : Fortune ! such thy gambols blind,

No more, 0! Fortune! should I fear thy Veering as th' autumnal wind,

frown, And giftful to the sons of Earth,' Nor change my station for Britannia's With golden show'rs you grace their crowa. birth,

P. P. ORIGINAL IRISH,

TRANSLATION

Тебјајъ jon, San 15је

ganyhof, Manajd a dir, ra ndý¢af:

Restless exiles, as they roam,
Still languish, for their native home

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