A NEW EDITION OF AN OLD FABLE.
The effects of the storms in February upon the promotions and protections are yet felt, and there will be no such crops as to render it necessary to employ women-reapers, which has formerly been done. The smut has very generally prevailed in this article.
Many experienced agriculturists have been lately grubbing up the hypocrites, a weed hitherto too much neglected. For this purpose they have chosen the best grounds, and have discovered that when these weeds are grubbed up, cut, sliced, and exposed for a few days, they make admirable food for ridicule.
A NEW EDITION OF AN OLD FABLE.
THE MEMBERS OF THE FOUR-IN-HAND CLUB.
[From the Morning Chronicle, May 11.]
GRECIAN youth, of talents rare,
Whom Plato's philosophic care
Had form'd for Virtue's nobler view,
By precept and example too,
Would often boast his matchless skill,
To curb the steed and guide the wheel;
And as he pass'd the gazing throng
With graceful ease, and smack'd the thong,
The idiot wonder they express'd
Was praise and transport to his breast.
At length, quite vain, he needs must show
His master what his art could do;
And bade his slaves the chariot lead
To Academus' sacred shade.
The trembling grove confess'd its fright,
The wood-nymphs started at the sight,
The Muses dropt the learned lyre,
And to their inmost shade retire.
Howe'er, the youth, with forward air,
Bows to the sage, and mounts the car;
The lash resounds, the coursers spring,
The chariot marks the rolling ring;
And gathering crowds with eager eyes
And shouts pursue him as he flies.
Triumphant to the goal return'd,
With nobler thirst his bosom burn'd;
And now among th' indented plain
The self-same track he marks again,
Pursues with care the nice design,
Nor ever deviates from the line.
Amazement seiz'd the circling crowd;
The youths with emulation glow'd;
E'en bearded sages hail'd the boy,
And all but Plato gaz'd with joy;
For he, deep-judging sage, beheld
With pain the triumphs of the field:
And when the charioteer drew nigh,
And flush'd with hope had caught his eye-
"Alas! unhappy youth," he cried,
"Expect no praise from me"-(and sigh'd);
"With indignation I survey
Such skill and judgment thrown away.
The time profusely squander'd there
On vulgar arts beneath thy care,
If well employ'd, at less expense
Had taught thee honour, virtue, sense;
And rais'd thee from a coachman's fate,
To govern men and guide the state."
A SPEECH IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS,
ON FRIDAY, THE 12TH OF MAY.
[From the Morning Herald, May 16.]
RISE to request that the House will have patience,
While I make 'em a speech on our foreign relations.
The first point to which I object in my zeal,
Is the loan to our ally, the Prince of Brazil ;
We want money ourselves, and therefore my shift
Would be to afford, not a loan, but a gift;
I scorn the security proffer'd, nor care a
Fig for the wealth of Brazil, or Madeira!
From the line to the pole in my funny proceeding,
It is England, I say, that has ruin'd poor Sweden
A SPEECH IN THE HOUse of comMONS.
By giving her cash, without which I maintain
She'd have died long ago, and so been out of pain;
But by our assistance, both naval and inland,
She contrives to survive th' amputation of Finland;
And by this our absurd and extravagant scheme,
Her life has been sav'd, after losing a limb.
I have said, as to Spain I would stop at no expense, (In my pamphlet that's publish'd by Ridgway, price sixpence ;)
And I boldly repeat, though her ruler's a ninny,
I would further his cause with Old England's last guinea.
But now, Sir, I come to remark those advances
Which I fear may be made to the Emperor Francis,
Who, indebted for all to the favour and honour
Of France, breaks his treaties, and pounces upon her—
Poor innocent France, whose troops at a distance
Were affording to Spain their fraternal assistance!
Sir, have we forgotten to whose moderation
This Austria owes that she still is a nation?
"Good statesmen should look to their office files," says Burke,
And therefore I look to the treaty of Presburgh,
Of France's good faith the magnanimous token,
Which Austria now has so shamefully broken.
Already, I doubt not, Napoleon the Great is
Avenging himself on this breaker of treaties.
Already he puts his best troops to the rout;
E'en now from the Inn he is driving them out.
Already he rends from the Emperor's tunic
A slice which he adds to the mantle of Munich;
He smashes whole armies like pans in a pottery;
And thus I am led to consider the lottery -
Of a lottery this definition I draw;
'Tis a species of gambling allow'd by the law,
In which, when they 've lost ev'ry farthing they had,
Poor women have sometimes been known to go mad.
Alas, Sir! more ill to the people I fear
From insurance, than even from drugs in their beer.
Of the lottery, Sir, I could tell such a tale!
How it injures the health, worse than opium in ale;
How, in weak'ning the body and mind, it surpasses
Brown stout, drugg'd with vitriol, quassia, molasses.
Sir, I weep at the thoughts of effects so dolorous;
But, as lotteries are not the question before us,
I give notice, that, when occasion affords,
I shall re-shed my tears, and re-echo my words!
THE TRIUMPH OF THE LEEK::
AN ODE.
[From the Morning Post, May 23.]
ASTE hither, all ye bards, and bring
The harp that makes old Cymry ring,
Plinlimmon leap, and Snowdon spring,
Like Highland chieftains dancing::
But ere ye come from ransack'd vales,
Cull wreaths of leeks with long green tails,
To pour their odours on the gales,
Whilst Gwyllim is advancing.
His high achievements then proclaim,
His former and late feats of fame-
How he once cool'd rebellion's flame
In Erin's northern ranges,
And made her scar'd abettors run-
Those bold reformers who begun,
First by resolves then pike and gun,.
To work their wholesome changes!
And sing with what delight he saw
The antidote of martial law,
From wretched cabins, thatch'd with straw,
Dislodge the pois'nous vapour;.
And while the fiery volumes wheel,
Or when the Croppies felt the steel,
Or cat-and-nine-tails made them squeal,
How he could dance and caper.
Then change the note, and sing again,
But in a soften'd Lydian strain,
How the warm-hearted, gentle swain,
Won Mary Anne's affection,
How fond he su'd-how oft he came
By day and night to see the dame-
Though he denied this once-for shame,
But own'd it-on reflection.
THE CROWN AND ANCHOR MEETING. I
Now sound his triumph--who's afraid?
Of Mary Anne a foul he made,
To tell what amorous tricks she play'd
Upon her quondam lover.
To tell them in St. Stephen's Hall,
Before th' assembled Call,
Nor fear, nor shame, did her appal,
With Gwyllim for her mover!
Now blow a strong applausive blast,
And sing Reform, secur'd at last-
Rejoice, ye patriots of Belfast,
Exult, ye kids of Keady!
Corruption's Gordian knot is cut-
We're at the kernel of the nut
In which the canker-worm lies shut.
Huzza for Gwyllim's lady!
THE CROWN AND ANCHOR MEETING. [The following verses are extracted from The Satirist" for April. The rest of the Song satirizes the sentiments of Messrs. Whitbread, Combe, Waithman, Cobbett, and Lord Folkstone.]
FOR THE MEETING OF THE FRIENDS OF PARLIAMENTARY REFORM AT THE CROWN AND ANCHOR.
HAT rogues are these in greasy caps,
With long lank hair, and lantern chaps,
With gin and treason warm!
Who throng the Crown and Anchor door,
And cry up Wardle and his w-e,
And bellow for reform-
Who King and Lords and Commons hate,
And would pull down both church and state-
They are a rebel crew:
To every faction well inclin'd,
They change their rags, but not their mind-
They once wore, buff and blue.
And who is he that heads the mob,
With Roman nose, and Brutus nob,
Who treason's trump has sounded,
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