And he call'd his little Soul to order, order, order,

Till she fear'd he'd make her jog in

To jail like Thomas Croggan

(As she wasn't Duke or Earl), to reward her, ward her, ward her, As she wasn't Duke or Earl, to reward her.

The little Man then spoke,
'Little Soul, it is no joke,

For as sure as J-cky F-ull-r loves a sup, sup, sup,
I will tell the Prince and People

What I think of Church and Steeple,

And my little patent plan to prop them up, up, up,
And my little patent plan to prop them up.'

Away then, cheek by jowl,

Little Man and little Soul

Went and spoke their little speech to a tittle, tittle, tittle,
And the world all declare

That this priggish little pair

Never yet in all their lives look'd so little, little, little,
Never yet in all their lives look'd so little!

REINFORCEMENTS FOR LORD WELLINGTON.

suosque tibi commendat Troja PENATES

Hos cape fatorum comites.-Virgil.

As recruits in these times are not easily got,

1813.

And the Marshal must have them-pray, why should we not,
As the last and, I grant it, the worst of our loans to him,

Ship off the Ministry, body and bones to him?

There's not in all England, I'd venture to swear,

Any men we could half so conveniently spare,

And, though they've been helping the French for years past,
We may thus make them useful to England at last.

C-stl-r-gh in our sieges might save some disgraces,
Being used to the taking and keeping of places;
And Volunteer C-nn-g, still ready for joining,
Might show off his talent for sly undermining.
Could the Household but spare us its glory and pride,
Old H-df-t at horn-works again might be tried,
And the Ch-f J-st-e make a bold charge at his side!
While V-ns-tt-t could victual the troops upon tick,
And the Doctor look after the baggage and sick.

Nay, I do not see why the great R-g-t himself

Should, in times such as these, stay at home on the shelf;-
Though through narrow defiles he's not fitted to pass,
Yet who could resist, if he bore down en masse ?

And though oft, of an evening, perhaps, he might prove,
Like our brave Spanish allies, unable to move,"

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Yet there's one thing in war of advantage unbounded,
Which is that he could not with ease be surrounded!
In my next I shall sing of their arms and equipment !
At present no more but―good luck to the shipment!

HORACE, ODE I. LIB. III.

A FRAGMENT.

Odi profanum vulgus et arceo.
Favete linguis: carmina non prius
Audita, Musarum sacerdos,
Virginibus puerisque canto.

Regum timendorum in proprios greges,
Reges in ipsos imperium est Jovis.

HATE thee, O Mob! as my lady hates delf,

1813.

To Sir Francis I'll give up thy claps and thy hisses,

Leave old Magna Charta to shift for itself,

And, like G-dw-n, write books for young masters and misses. Oh! it is not high rank that can make the heart merry,

Even monarchs themselves are not free from mishap,

Though the Lords of Westphalia must quake before Jerry,

Poor Jerry himself has to quake before Nap.

*

HORAT. LIB. I. ODE XXXVIII,

A FRAGMENT.

Persicos odi, puer, apparatus:
Displicent nexæ philyra coronæ,
Mitte sectari Rosa quo locorum
Sera moretur.

TRANSLATED BY A TREASURY CLERK, WHILE WAITING DINNER FOR THE RIGHT
HON. G-RGE R-SE.

Boy, tell the Cook that I hate all nick-nackeries,
Fricassées, vol-au-vents, puffs and gim-crackeries→
Six by the Horse-Guards!-old Gregory is late-
But come-lay the table cloth-zounds! do not wait,
Nor stop to inquire, while the dinner is staying,
At which of his places old R-e is delaying !2

IMPROMPTU.

UPON BEING OBLIGED TO LEAVE A PLEASANT PARTY, FROM THE WANT OF A PAIR OF BREECHES TO DRESS FOR DINNER IN.

1810.

BETWEEN Adam and me the great difference is,
Though a Paradise each has been forced to resign,
That he never wore breeches till turn'd out of his,
While, for want of my breeches, I'm banish'd from mine.

LORD WELLINGTON AND THE MINISTERS.

So gently in peace Alcibiades smiled,

1813.

While in battle he shone forth so terribly grand,
That the emblem they graved on his scal was a child,
With a thunderbolt placed in its innocent hand.

O Wellington! long as such Ministers wield

Your magnificent arm, the same emblem will do;
For while they're in the Council and you in the Field,
We've the babies in them, and the thunder in you!

which, from the odd mixture of words, he supposes to be a kind of Irish Bed of Roses, like Lord Castlereagh's. The learned Clerk next favours us with some remarks upon a well-known punning epitaph on Fair Rosamond, and expresses a most loyal hope, that, if 'Rosa munda' mean 'a Rose with clean hands,' it may be found applicable to the Right Honourable Rose in question. He then dwells at some length upon

the Rosa aurea,' which, though descriptive, in one sense, of the old Treasury statesman, yet, as being consecrated and worn by the Pope, must, of course, not be brought into the same atmosphere with him. Lastly, in reference to the 'old Rose,' he winds up with the pathetic lamentation of the poet, consenuisse Rosas.' The whole note, indeed, shows a knowledge of Roses that is quite edifying.

SACRED SONGS.

1816.

THOU ART, O GOD!

AIR-Unknown.1

The day is thine, the night also is thine: thou hast prepared the light and the sun. Thou hast set all the borders of the earth: thou hast made summer and winter.'—Psalm lxxiv. 16, 17.

THOU art, O God! the life and light

Of all this wondrous world we see ;
Its glow by day, its smile by night,
Are but reflections caught from Thee.
Where'er we turn thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are
thine.

When day, with farewell beam, delays

Among the opening clouds of even, And we can almost think we gaze Through golden vistas into heaven; Those hues, that make the sun's decline

So soft, so radiant, Lord! are thine.

When night, with wings of starry gloom,
O'ershadows all the earth and skies,
Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose
plume

Is sparkling with unnumber'd eyes;-
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, Lord! are thine.
When youthful spring around us
breathes,

Thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh; And every flower the summer wreathes Is born beneath that kindling eye. Where'er we turn thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are thine.

THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW.
AIR-Stevenson.

THIS world is all a fleeting show
For man's illusion given;
The smiles of joy, the tears of woc,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow,-

There's nothing true but Heaven!
And false the light on glory's plume,
As fading hues of even;

And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom,

Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb,-
There's nothing bright but Heaven!

Poor wanderers of a stormy day,

From wave to wave we're driven, And fancy's flash and reason's ray Serve but to light the troubled way, There's nothing calm but Heaven!

I have heard that this air is by the late Mrs. Sheridan. It is sung to the beautiful old words, I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair.'

'I have left mine heritage; I have given the dearly beloved of my soul into the hands of her enenies.'-Jer. xii. 7.

2Do not disgrace the throne of thy glory.'Jer. xiv. 21.

No-Heaven but faintly warms the breast,

That beats beneath a broider'd veil; And she, who comes in glittering vest To mourn her frailty, still is frail.8

Not so the faded form I prize

And love, because its bloom is gone; The glory in those sainted eyes

Is all the grace her brow puts on. And ne'er was Beauty's dawn so bright, So touching as that form's decay, Which, like the altar's trembling light, In holy lustre wastes away!

of Slaughter; for they shall bury in Tophet, till there be no place.'-Jer. vii. 32.

7 These lines were suggested by a passage in St. Jerome's reply to some calumnious remarks that had been circulated upon his intimacy with 3The Lord called thy name, A green olive-the Matron Paula:-'Numquid me vestes sericæ, tree, fair, and of goodly fruit,' &c.-Jer. xi. 16. 4 For he shall be like the heath in the desert.' -Jer. xvii. 6.

5 Take away her battlements; for they are not the Lord's.'-Jer. v. 10.

6Therefore, behold, the days come, saith the Lord, that it shall no more be called Tophet, nor the valley of the son of Hinnom, but the Valley

nitentes gemmæ, picta facies, aut auri rapuit ambitio ? Nulla fuit alia Romæ matronaruin, quæ meam po sit edomare mentem, nisi lugens atque jejunans, fletu pene cæcata.'-Epist. 'Si tibi putem.'

8 Ου γαρ χρυσοφορειν την δακρύουσαν δει. Chrysost. Homil. 8, in Epist. ad Tim.

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