Of "the Leasowes" let some people boast;
What is "Shenstone" and such stuff to me!
Folks never eat here at niy cost-
'Cause there's nothing to eat or to see!
ON THE NOTORIOUS MR. C-T BEING KICKED OUT
OF A Hell, IN SAINT JAMES'S STREET, BY MAJOR G——D, FOR MAL-PRACTICES.
[From the British Press, April 15]
-T the mean, of shabby fame,
(Whom pigeons know too well,)
Was verging towards the shores of Styx,
To answer for his dirty tricks,
When Major G-d, in anger came,
And kick'd him out of hell!
Oh! wondrous Major, quit thy sword,
(Which thou hast us'd so well,)
And turn divine! Then little knaves
Will learn to mend this side their graves,
Lest Major Gd should be implor'd
To kick them into hell.
A SOLILOQUY.
[From the same.]
FOUGHT not for laurels or bays;
If you think su, you
All my glory-a whisper of praise
From the lips of my sweet Mistress Clarke.
Now her praises I dare not to seek,
For she has not of pity one spark ;
But smiles on the wretch who will speak
Against him who once lov'd Mrs. Clarke.
I wander each day in the grove,
At O-tl-ds, the H-se G-ds, and Park;
Whilst W-dle the Commons doth move,
At the instance of false Mistress Clarke.
When I visit my fam'd G-nw-d tree,
Where she carv'd her dread name on its bark;
I say to myself, "Woe is me!
That I ever should keep Mistress Clarke."
Oh! now the delusion is gone,
All around me is gloomy and dark;
I am scoff'd at, and left quite alone,
For the world all believe Mistress Clarke.
The sun never shone on such lies,
Since Noah came out of the ark,
As she tells, while she rolls her bright eyes
On the members-Oh! fie, Mistress Clarke!
Once soft were the notes of her song,
Sweeter far than the linnet or lark:
But those which now flow from her tongue,
Prove the rancour of base Mrs. Clarke.
To view her was transport divine,
To hear still, more blissful—but hark!
What's that voice? (surely misery 's mine)-
'Tis the nation's Go on, Mrs. Clarke."
TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING CHRONICLE.
LLOW me to consult your literary readers respecting a new edition of Ogilvy's translation of Virgil, which I am now preparing for the press. am in particular doubt with regard to the propriety of the synæresis of Marian, from Mary Anne, in the following passage:→
Arms, and the man, I sing, who did command,
Love forc'd from W--m-th, on the Br-ghton strand; Whom angry foes at Westminster engage,
And cruel Marian's persecuting rage.
Say Muse, what power was injur'd? on what ground,
Love's queen a prince for piety renown'd
To such unheard-of dangers did constrain;
Can in celestial minds such passion reign?
Any obscurity in the above passage may be dissipated by a reference to the Edit. Brit. Coriolani Epist. Yours,
A NEW HUNTING SONG.
[From the Morning Chronicle, April 17.]
LL sports of the forest and sports of the field
To the joys of political hunting must yield;
And a season like this, both for sportsmen and game,
Was never yet heard of in fox-hunting fame;
For racing and mobbing, hard riding and noise,
No hunt can compare with St. Stephen's brave boys;
And to crown all their sports, as they drew t' other day,
They found fast in a trap that arch-fox C-stl-r-gh.
The first day they met, at a stag they ran riot,
Though C-nn-ng in vain crack'd his whip to keep quiet,
For away went the pack in full cry and full view;
Their game he was royal, to Windsor he flew ;
But nothing could save him from fox-hounds so staunch,
They follow'd him up till they hung on his haunch;
He was fairly run down, though so bold was his start, »
And his keepers convey'd him away in a cart.
The leading hound, W-rdl-, ran well, though untried,
And F-lk-
-ne and B-rd-tt were close at his side.
And though Wh-tb- and R-m-lly stuck to the track,
In fair running the young hounds threw out the old pack;
For out of the whole, 't was a shame and a sin,
There were but a hundred and twenty-five in ;
Some shuffled, some skirted, and some ran away;
We hope they'll hunt better my L-d C-stl-r-gh.
But the joys of fox-hunting are better by half,
For hunting this stag was but hunting a calf;
And the fox they 've now got leaves all foxes behind,
For speed and for bottom, for wiles and for wind;
And ne'er with such chance of good sport have they found,
Since, some seasons back, they ran M-lv-lle to ground.
But the sport of all sports is reserv'd for the day
When out of a bag they turn L-d C-stl-r—gh.
Then let's wish 'em success in a bumper-Here goes.
May the next fox they catch be the cunning old R-e!
When we fairly may hope to extirpate the breed
Of the creatures of rapine on England that feed;
For such foxes as these we may try for in vain,
We never shall meet with their equals again;
For the devil must make up the partie quarrée,
With old M-lv-lle, old R-e, and young L-d C-stl-r-gh.
NIMROD.
NEW HEARTS OF OAK.
INSCRIBED TO MR. WARDLE.
[From the same, April 19.]
HEN Alfred, our King, drove the Dane from this land,
He planted an oak with his own royal hand;
And he pray'd for Heaven's blessing to hallow the tree,
As a sceptre for England, the queen of the sea.
Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men
We always are ready, steady boys, steady,
To charge and to conquer again and again.
The sapling shot up and stuck firm to the ground;
It defied every tempest that bellow'd around;
And still was it seen with fresh vigour to shoot,
When the blood of our martyrs had moisten'd its root.
Hearts of oak, &c.
But the worms of corruption had eaten their way
Through its bark; till a Wardle has swept them away:
He has sworn, no such reptiles our tree shall infest,
And our patriots soon shall extirpate the nest.
Yon tyrant, whose rule abject Europe bemoans-
Yon brood of usurpers who sit on her thrones---
Shall look on our country, and tremble with awe,
Where a son of the Monarch has bow'd to the law.
Now long live the Briton, who dar'd to revive
The spirit which Britons scarce felt was alive;
His name shall be carv'd, while of freedom we sing,
On the oak that was planted by Alfred our King,
Hearts of oak, &c.
AGAINST encroaching power brave Hampden stood
To stem that power mild Russell shed his blood:
Names dear to Liberty, to Britain dear!
Yet still she weeps o'er their untimely bier.
Britons, your plaudits now let Wardle have-
As mild as Rusself, and as Hampden brave.
Like them renown'd, but happier be his fate,
Who stems corruption in our venal state.
Soon may he chase that vice from England's shores,
And long enjoy the virtue he restores!
FIRST SIEGE OF SARAGOSSA.
[From the same, April 27.]
WHILE prostrate slaves, to virtue dead,
Kiss the foul track where tyrants tread,
Still Freedom lifts her dauntless head
In sacred Saragossa.
The practis'd tools of grasping power
Around her walls in legions lour,
Walls little fit in trying hour
To profit Saragossa.
But native valour, noble pride,
Arrange her heroes side by side,
A rampart that defies the tide
Which threatens Saragossa.
Each house a fortress to defend,
Father and son refuse to bend,
And sights are seen which hearts might rend,
In struggling Saragossa.
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