Such are, perhaps, the ills we oft sustain,
Inciting oft our impious complaints;
But who, when crush'd by penury and pain,
Whose spirit under heavy suffering faints?

Can e'er his murm'ring thoughts subdue with ease,
Repress the vult'rine sighs which tear his breast,
Controul the tyrant passions as he please,

And sooth the sorrows that disturb his rest. Thou God of mercy! hear the earnest pray'r, Thy creature suppliant offers at thy throne; Give heav'nly patience to each child of care, Hush ev'ry grief, and mitigate each groan. Fort-street.

J. S.

THE HARPER.

FROM "6 CAMPBELL'S PLEASURES OF HOPE."

ON

of See our Literary Review. )

N the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelan was nigh,

No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;

No harp like my own could so cheerily play,
And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

When at last I was forc'd from my Sheelah to part, She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart), Oh! remember, your Sheelah when far far away; And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.

Poor dog! he was faithful and kind to be sure, And he constantly lov'd me, although I was poor; When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away, I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.

When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,

And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,

How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey,
And he lick'd me for kindness-my poor dog Tray;

Though my wallet was scant, I remember'd his case, Nor refus'd my last crust to his pitiful face;

But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,
And I play'd a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.

Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind! ·
Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind?
To my sweet native village, so far far away,
I can never more return with my poor dog Tray.

CRAZY PAUL.

A Parody on the celebrated and popular Song of CRAZY. JANE, and set to the same Tune.

WHY

HY, dear George, in every feature
Are such signs of fear impress'dè
Can a mad, tho' hostile creature,
With such terror fill thy breast?
Do his frenzied looks alarm thee?
Let not these thy heart appal:
Not for kingdoms can he harm thee;-
Shun not then poor Crazy Paul.
Does he still for Malta languish?
Mark him and avoid his woe;
Proud ambition causes anguish,

States are false-you find them so.
Austria loves-oh, how sincerely!
While the guineas round her fall;
Denmark, Sweden, lov'd as dearly,
Yet they're gone to Crazy Paul.
Fondly George's heart receiv'd him,
Doom'd to court more kings than one;
Paul vow'd to love, and George believ'd him;
Paul is false-George not undone.

From that hour his fleet is ready

To attack with fire and ball;
Nelson, with a courage steady,

Cries" Have at thee, Crazy Paul."

British tars, so gallant-hearted,
With victorious thoughts beset;
On seas where they and Russia parted,
On seas where they and Russia met,

Still shall sing the war-lorn ditty,
Still shall fight at honour's call;
While each passing ship in pity,
Cries" God help thee, Crazy Paul.",

A

THE

ORPHAN BEGGAR GIRL.

S weary I wander, by night and by day, Invited by hope, and pursu'd by despair; Full often I meet the beaut'ous and gay,

But they feel not my suff'rings, they heed not my

care.

And at night, all alone, when the cold winds and rain,

Beat remorseless against this poor shelterless breast I petition the great-they reply with disdain,

I give them my blessing they leave me unblest. Ah! none think of me, for my parents are dead, My money is gone, and my friends are all flown; In solitude born, and in penury bred,

I'm doom'd thus regardless to wander alone. Yon house, where the taper diffuses its light, The gay, and the affluent revel in wine;

But they dream not of sorrow, where there's such delight,

They feel no misfortunes-they think not of mine.

Ah! fluttering heart, why so nimbly thus beat,
No heart with kind sympathy e'er beats for thee;
No protection on earth shalt thou evermore meet,

Death alone is thy friend, and he'll soon set thee free. Then ye proud, and ye wealthy, go take your dull joys,

You must quickly this scene, with its pleasures re

sign!

We may yet meet again, where no sorrows annoys,
Nor a poor orphan girl thus unheeded repine!

Wolverhampton,

CIVIS

SONG,

IN THE CAKE-HOUSE;

By Mr. DIBDIN.

ANNA, ANN, NAN, NANCE AND NANCY.

Y love's a vessel trim and gay,

M Rigg'd out with truth, and stor'd with honoar;

As through life's sea she cuts her way,
All eyes with rapture gaze upon her.
Built ev'ry wondering heart to please,

The lucky shipwright's love and fancy,
From stem to stern she moves with ease.
And at her launch they call'd her Nancy.
When bearing up against life's gales,

So well she stems the dangerous trouble,
I call her Anna as she sails,

Her form's so grand, her air's so noble.
When o'er the trembling wave she flies,
That plays and sports as she advances,
"Well said, my Nan," I fondly cries,
As my full heart in concert dances.
In studding-sails before life's breeze,
So sweetly gentle is her motion,
She's Anne, for as she moves with ease,
She seems the queen of all the ocean.
But when on Sundays rigg'd in stays,
Like beauty gay, and light as fancy,
She wins my heart a thousand ways,
I then delight to call her Nancy.
When laying on a tack so neat,

The breeze her milk-white bosom filling,
She skims the yielding waves so fleet,

I call her Nance, my bosom thrilling.
Thus is she precious to my heart,

By whate'er name comes o'er my fancy;
Graceful or gay; grand, neat, or smart,
Or Anna, Ann, Nan, Nance, or Nancy.

ALMERIA;

OR,

THE PENITENT.

Being a genuine Epistle from an Unfortunate Daughter in -------, to her Family in the Country.

(See page 227 of this Number.)

WITHDRAWN from on, and the snares of vice,

ITHDRAWN from all temptations that entice,

From all that can inspire unchaste delight,
To my dear bleeding family I write ;
But oh! my pen the tender task denies,
And all the daughter rushes to my eyes:
Oft as the paper to my hand I've brought,
That hand still trembled at the shock of thought;
Sighs interrupt the story of my woe,

My blushes burn me, and my tears o'erflow;
But nature now insists upon her claim,

Strikes the fine nerve, and gives me up to shame;
No more the anxious wish can I restrain,
Silent no longer can your child remain;

Write, write I must, each hope, each fear declare,
And try, once more, to win a father's care:
Scorn not, ah! scorn not then the mournful verse,
Revive my blessing and recall my curse;
Give to a daughter's wrongs one parent sigh,
Nor let a mother her last prayer deny.

Yet where, oh where, shall I the tale begin,
And where conclude the narrative of sin?
How each dire circumstance of guilt disclose,
Unload my breast and open all its woes?
How to an injur'd parent shall I tell
The arts by which I stray'd, by which I fell ?
No common language can the scene cxpress,
Where every line should mark extreme distress;
Mere human words unequal all, we find,
To paint the feelings of a wounded mind;