NEW-FASHIONED ECHOES. Sir, Most of your readers are, no doubt, acquainted with the anecdote told of a certain, not over-wise, judge, who, when in the act of delivering a charge in some country court-house, was interrupted by the braying of an ass at the door. "What noise is that?" asked the angry judge. "Only an extraordinary echo there is in court, my Lord," answered one of the counsel. As there are a number of such "extraordinary echoes" abroad just now, you will not, perhaps, be unwilling, Mr. Editor, to receive the following few lines suggested by them. Yours, &c. Huc coeamus*, ait; nullique libentius unquam OVID. S. THERE are echoes, we know, of all sorts, There are echoes that bore us, like Blues, * "Let us form Clubs." There are echoes, extremely like shrews, In the bogs of old Paddy-land, too, But why should I talk any more Of such old-fashion'd echoes as these, When Britain has new ones in store, That transcend them by many degrees? For, of all repercussions of sound, Concerning which bards make a pother, There's none like that happy rebound When one blockhead echoes another; When K-ny-n commences the bray, * Commonly called "Paddy Blake's Echoes." And while, of most echoes the sound On our ear by reflection doth fall, Oh Scott, were I gifted like you, Who can name all the echoes there are From Benvoirlich to bold Ben-venue, From Benledi to wild Uamvar; I might track, through each hard Irish name, Till from Neddy to Neddy, it came To the chief Neddy, K-ny-n, again; Might tell how it roar'd in R-thd—ne, Of the fat-pated Marquis of E-y; How, on hearing my Lord of Ge, Thistle-eaters, the stoutest, gave way, Anti-Catholic associations, under the title of Brunswick Clubs, were at this time becoming numerous both in England and Ireland. Outdone, in their own special line, By the forty-ass power of his bray! But, no-for so humble a bard 'Tis a subject too trying to touch on; Such noblemen's names are too hard, And their noddles too soft to dwell much on. Oh Echo, sweet nymph of the hill, Of the dell, and the deep-sounding shelves; If, in spite of Narcissus, you still Take to fools who are charm'd with themselves, Who knows but, some morning retiring, Or, on into Cambria straying, Find K-ny-n, that double tongu'd elf, In his love of ass-cendency, braying A Brunswick duet with himself! 1st Bruns.-THRICE hath scribbling K-ny-n scrawl'd, 2d Bruns.-Once hath fool N-wc-stle bawl'd, 3d Bruns.-B-xl-y snores:-'tis time, 'tis time, 1st Bruns.-Round about the caldron go; In the pois'nous nonsense throw. Bigot spite, that long hath grown, Like a toad within a stone, Boil we in the Brunswick pot. All.-Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble, Eld-n, talk, and K-ny-n, scribble. 2d Bruns.. Slaver from N-wc-stle's quill -- In the noisome mess distil, |