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But it since has received a new coating of Tin,
Bright enough for a Prince to behold himself in.
Come, what shall we say for it ? briskly! bid on,
We'll the sooner get rid of it-going-quite gone.
God be with it, such tools, if not quickly knock'd

Might at last cost their owner-how much ? why,

a Crown!

The little Man look'd big

With th' assistance of his wig,
And he call'd his little Soul to order, order, order,

Till she feard 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 o- Earl, to reward her.

" And

The next Tool I'll set up has hardly had handsel or The little Man then spoko, Trial as yet, and is also a Chancellor

“ Little Soul, it is no joke, Such dull things as these should be sold by tho “For as sure as J-cky F-11-r loves a sup, sup, gross ;

sup, Yet, dull as it is, 'twill be found to share close,

“I will tell the Prince and People And like other close shavers, some courage to

" What I think of Church and Steeple, gather,


little patent plan to prop them up, up, up, This blade first began by a flourish on leather.' “ And my little patent plan to prop them up." You shall have it for nothing—then, marvel with

Away then, cheek by jowl, At the terriblo tinkering work there must be,


Little Man and little Soul Where a Tool such as this is (I'll leave you to judge Went and spoke their little speech to a tittle, tittle, it)

tittle, Is placed by ill luck at the top of the Budget !

And the world all declare

That this priggish little pair
Never yet in all their lives look'd so little, little,

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



To the tune of There was a little man, and he woo'd a little





Suosque tibi commendat Troja Penates Arcades ambo

Hos cape fatorum comites.

VIRGIL. Et cant-are pares.


As recruits in these times are not easily got, There was a little Man, and he had a littio Soul,

And the Marshal must have them-pray, wh And he said, “ Little Soul, let us try, try, try,

should we not, “ Whether it's within our reach

As the last and, I grant it, the worst of our loa “ To make up a little Speech,

to him, “ Just between little you and little I, I, I,

Ship off the Ministry, body and bones to him ? “ Just between little you and little I!"

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

Any men we could half so conveniently spare ; Then said his little Soul,

And, though they've been helping the French 1 Peeping from her little hole,

years past, “ I protest, little Man, you are stout, stout, stout,

We may thus make them useful to England at la “ But, if it's not uncivil,

C—stl—s—gh in our sieges might save some d “ Pray tell me what the devil

graces, “ Must our little, little speech be about, bout, bout,

Being used to the taking and keeping of places; “Must our little, little speech be about ?"

And Volunteer C—nn“g, still ready for joining, q u of the taxes proposed by Mr. Vansittart, that princi- Could the Household but spare us its glory and pri

Might show off his talent for sly undermining. pally opposed in Parliament was the additional duty on leather."-Ann. Register.

Old H—df-t at horn-works again might be tries


And the Ch-fJ-st-o make a bold charge at his side:

HORACE, ODE XXXVIII. LIB I. While V-AS-it-t could victual the troops upon tick,

Persicos odi, puer, adparatus; And the Doctor look after the baggage and sick.

Displicent nexæ philyra coronæ ;

Mitte sectari, Rosa quo locorum. Nay, I do not see why the great. R-g-t himself

Sera moretur. Should, in times such as these, stay at home on the


DINNER FOR THE RIGHT HON. G-RGER-SE Though through narrow defiles he's not fitted to pass, Yet who could resist, if he bore down en masse ? Boy, tell the Cook that I hate all nick-nackeries, And though oft, of an evening, perhaps ho might Fricassees, vol-au-vents, puffs, and gim-crackeries prove,

Six by the Hors-Guards -old Georgy is lateLike our Spanish confed'rates, “unable to move, But come-lay the table-cloth—zounds! do not wait, Yet there's one thing in war of advantage unbounded, Nor stop to inquire, while the dinner is staying, Which is, that he could not with ease be surrounded. At which of his places Old R-o is delaying!

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In my next I shall sing of their arms and equip

ment; At present no more, but—good luck to the shipment !





BETWEEN Adam and me the great difference is,
Odi profanum vulgus et arceo:
Favete linguis: carinina non prius

Though a paradise each has been forced to resign,
Audita Musarum sacerdos

That he never wore breeches till turn'd out of his, Virginibus puerisque canto.

While, for want of my breeches, I'm banish'd from Regum timendorum in proprios greges,

mine. Reges in ipsos imperium est Jovis.

1813. I HATE thee, oh, Mob, as my Lady hates delf; To Sir Francis I'll give up thy claps and thy hisses,

LORD WELLINGTON AND THE Leave old Magna Charta to shift for itself,

MINISTERS. And, like G-dw-n, write books for young mas

1813. ters and misses.

So gently in peace Alcibiades smiled, Oh! it is not lugh rank that can make the heart While in battle he shone forth so terribly grand, merry,

That the emblem they graved on his seal, was a child Even monarchs themselves are not free from mis With a thunderbolt placed in its innocent hand.

hap: Though the Lords of Westphalia must quako before Oh Wellington, long as such Ministers wield Jerry,

Your magnificent arm, the same emblem will do ; Poor Jerry himself has to quake before Nap. For while they're in the Council and you in the Field,

We've the babies in them and the thunder in you !

1 The character given to the Spanish soldier, in Sir John Clerk next favors us with some remarks upon a well-known Marray's memorable dispatch.

punning epitaph on fair Rosamond, and expresses a most • The literal closeness of the version here cannot but be loyal hope, that, if “ Rosa munda" mean "a Rose with clean admired. The Translator has added a long, erudite, and hands," it may be found applicable to the Right Honorable Rowery pote upon Roses, of which I can merely give a speci- Rose in question. He then dwells at some length upon the men at present. In the first place, he ransacks the Rosarium “Rosa aurea,” which, though descriptive, in one sense, of PHiticura of the Persian poet Sadi, with the hope of finding the old Treasury Statesman, yet, as being consecrated and Borne Political Roses, to match the gentleman in the text worn by the Pope, must, of course, not be brought into the bat in vain: he then tells us that Cicero accused Verres of same atmosphere with him. Lastly, in reference to the reposing upon a cushion “ Melitensi rosd fartum,” which, words “old Rose," he winds up with the pathetic lamentafrom the odd mixture of words, he supposes to be a kind of tion of the Poet “consenuisse Rosas.” The whole note, brick Bed of Roses, like Lord Castereagh's. The learned indeed, shows a knowledge of Roses, that is quite edifying





The Advertisements which were prefixed to the different numbers, the Presatory Letter upon Music, &c., will be found in an Appendix at the end of the Melodies.


It is now many years since, in a Letter prefixed to the Third Number of the Irish Melodies, I had the pieasure of inscribing the Poems of that work to your Ladyship, as to one whose character reflected honor on the country to which they relate, and whose friendship had long been the pride and happiness of their Author. With the same feelings of affection and respect, confirmed if not increased by the experience of every succeeding year, I now place those Poems in their present new form under your protection, and am,

With perfect sincerity,
Your Ladyship’s ever attached Friend,



Go where glory waits thee,
But, while fame elates thee,

Oh! still remember me. When the praise thou meetest To thine ear is sweetest,

Oh! then remember me. Other arms may press thee, Dearer friends caress theo, All the joys that bless thee,

Sweeter far may be; But when friends are nearest, And when joys are dearest,

Oh! then remember me!


Though an edition of the Poetry of the Irish Melodies, separate from the Music, has long been called for, yet, having, for many reasons, a strong objection to this sort of divorce, I should with difficulty have consented to a disunion of the words from the airs, had it depended solely upon mo to keep them quietly and indissolubly together. But, besides the various shapes in which these, as well as my other lyrical writings, have been published throughout America, they are included, of course, in all the editions of my works printed on the Continent, and have also appeared, in a volume full of typographical errors, in Dublin. I have therefore readily acceded to the wish expressed by the Proprietor of the Irish Melodies, for a revised and complete edition of tho poetry of the Work, though well aware that my verses must lose even more than the “animæ dimidium,” in being detached from the beautiful airs to which it was their good fortune to be associated.

When, at eve, thou rovest
By the star thou lovest,

Oh! then remember me Think, when home returning, Bright we've seen it burning,

Oh! thus remember me. Oft as summer closes, When thine eye reposes On its lingʻring roses,

Once so loved by thee, Think of her who wove them, Her who made theo love them,

Oh! then remember me.

When, around thee dying, Autumn leaves are lying,

Oh! then remember me.

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REMEMBER the glories of Brien the brave,

OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. Tho' the days of the hero are o'er; Tho' lost to Mononia, and cold in the grave, On! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade, He returns to Kinkora no more.

Where cold and unhonor'd his relics are laid : That star of the field, which so often hath pour'd Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed, Its beam on the battle, is set;

As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head. Bat enough of its glory remains on each sword, To light us to victory yet.

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it

weeps, Mononia! when Nature embellish'd the tint Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he Of thy fields, and thy mountains so fair,

sleeps ; Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, The footstep of slavery there?

Shall long keep his memory green in our souls. No! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign,

Go, tell our invaders, the Danes,
That 'tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine,
Than to sleep but a moment in chains.

Forget not our wounded companions, who stood
In the day of distress by our side;

When he, who adores thee, has left but the name While the moss of the valley grew red with their Of his fault and his sorrows behind, hood,

Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame The; stirr'd not, but conquer'd and died.

Of a life that for thee was resign'd? That sun which now blesses our arms with his light, Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn, Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain ;

Thy tears shall efface their decree; Oh! let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night, For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, To find that they fell there in vain.

I have been but too faithful to thee.

1 Brien Borombe, the great monarch of Ireland, who was rick, prince of Osgory. The wounded men entreated that killed at the battle of Clontarf, in the beginning of the 11th they might be allowed to fight with the rest.-“ Let stakes century, after having defeated the Danes in twenty-five en (they said) be stuck in the ground, and suffer each of us, tied gagements.

to and supported by one of these stakes, to be placed in his rank * Manster.

by the side of a sound man." “Between seven and eight * The palace of Brien.

hundred wounded men, (adds O'Halloran,) pale, emaciated, + This allades to an interesting circumstance related of the and supported in this manner, appeared mixed with the foreDelgais, the favorite troops of Brien, when they were inter most of the troops ;-never was such another sight exhibitrupted in their return from the battle of Clontarf, by Fitzpat- ed."-History of Ireland, book xii. chap. i.


With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;

Every thought of my reason was thine ;
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above,

Thy name shall be mingled with mine.
Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live

The days of thy glory to see ; But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give

Is the pride of thus dying for thee.

Fly not yet, the fount that play'd
In times of old through Ammon's shade,'
Though icy cold by day it ran,
Yet still, like souls of mirth, began

To burn when night was near.
And thus, should woman's heart and looks
At noon be cold as winter brooks,
Nor kindle till the night, returning,
Brings their geni il hour for burning.

Oh! stay,-Oh! stay,–
When did morning ever break,
And find such beaming eyes awake

As those that sparkle here?



The harp that once through Tara's halls

The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,

As if that soul were fled.-
So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,
And hearts, that once beat high for praise,

Now feel that pulse no more.



No more to chiefs and ladies bright

The harp of Tara swells; The chord alone, that breaks at night,

Its tale of ruin tells. Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,

The only throb she gives, Is when some heart indignant breaks,

To show that still she lives.

On! think not my spirits are always as light,
And as free from a pang as they seem to you

now; Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night

Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow. No :-life is a waste of wearisome hours,

Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns ; And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers,

Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns. But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile,

May we never meet worse, in our pilgrimage here, Than the tear that enjoyment may gild with a sinile

, And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear.

The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven



If it were not with friendship and love inter


Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour,
When pleasure, like the midnight flower
That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,

And maids who love the moon. 'Twas but to bless these hours of shade That beauty and the moon were made; 'Tis then their soft attractions glowing Set the tides and goblets flowing.

Oh! stay,-Oh! stay,
Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this to-night, that oh! 'tis pain

To break its links so soon.

And I care not how soon I may sink to repose, When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my

mind. But they who have loved the fondest, the purest,

Too often have wept o'er the dream they believed ; And the heart that has slumber'd in friendship

securest, Is happy indeed if 'twas never deceived. But send round the bowl; whilo a relic of truth Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall be

mine, That the sunshine of love may illumino our youth, And the moonlight of friendship console our de


1 Solis Fons, near the Temple of Ammon.

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