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At different periods through the progress of this Journal, we have preserved many specimens of the ingenuity of the inimitable DIBDEN. The following excellent new song is so characteristical of a genuine British tar, that we fancy some of our readers will soon have it by heart.
Why what's that to you if my eyes I'm a wiping?
A tear is a pleasure d'ye see in its way,
But they that han’t pity, why I pities they.
If of courage you'd know, lads, the true from the sham;
But duty appeas’d, 'tis in mercy a lanıb.
There's bustling Bob Bounce, for the old one not caring,
Helter skelter to work, pelt away, cut and drive;
For as to a foe, why he'd eat him alive!
Who once sav'd his life, as near drowning he swam,
He cried over him all as one as a lamb.
That my friend Dick, or Tom, I would rescue from danger,
Or lay my life down for each lad in the mess,
And the poorer, the more I should succour distress.
And peril defy as a bug-bear, or flam,
But feel more, by compassion, when turn'd to a lamb.
The heart and the eyes, you see, keep the same motion,
For though both shed their drops, 'tis all to the same end;
Sheds his blood for his country, his tears for his friend.
You may snigger, and titter, I don't care a damn!
But, the battle once ended--the heart of a lamb.
I have searched in vain for the name of the quaint inditer of the subsequent stanzas, and am persuaded that he either timidly hid himself, or was lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity. Though his name is concealed, his merit is very conspicuous in this composition, which though written in a strain of peculiar simplicity, has for its vital principle, pure and practical philosophy
My mind to me a kingdom is,
Such perfect joy therein I find,
That God or nature hath assign’d:
si Content to live, this is my stay;
I seek no more than may suffice:
Look, what I lack, MY MIND SUPPLIES.
* I see how plenty surfeits oft,
And hasty climbers soonest fall,
Mishap doth threaten most of all:
“ No princely pomp, nor wealthy store,
No force to win a victory,
No shape to win a lover's eye.
“Some have too much, yet still they crave;
I little have, yet seek for more,
And I am rich with little store:
Having thus far regaled my readers with the agreeable, though homely verses of a sort of Grub Street writer, I will now strive to make them merry with a very modern Anacreontic. The ensuing song is the sportive effusion of a juvenile bard, by the name of Thomas A. Geary, who adorned Ireland, his native country, with the splendour of premature genius, and, who, by a premature death, accelerated by the vengeance of Adversity, still causes the tears of Sensibility to flow. I know of no festive ode more exhilirating than this; and though the austerer moralist may doubt the soundness of our poet's philosophy, yet the gayety of the sentiment will excite a kindred emotion in the breast even of the sternest. Amid the pining sicknesses, the corrosive cares, and pensive sorrows of our mortal condition, the nepenthe of the Greeks, the poppy of Asia, the falernium of Horace, and the burgundy of France, must, sometimes, be temperately enjoyed, in happy alliance with our physical power, and our moral consolations.
THE GLASSES SPARKLE ON THE BOARD.
The glasses sparkle on the board,
The wine is ruby bright,
Of ease and gay delight;
Then let us feast the soul;
Let's drown it in the bowl.
This world they say's a world of wo,
But that I must deny,
Or pain from Beauty's eye!
They would our joys control;
Let's drown it in the bowl.
That Time flies fast, the poets sing,
Then surely it is wise,
And seize him as he flies;
The moments as they roll,
Why drown it in the bowl.
FOR THE PORT FOLIO.-AN IDEA IN THE NIGHT.
To night, when I started from the first dreams of the despotism of fancy, I remembered that a favourite friend had, at the noon-tide hour, impatiently demanded of me who is Horace in London? To this query I can make no satisfactory response, but the light of my fading lamp, which I have recently relumed, enables me to transcribe, for the delight of my readers, the following stanzas, which will provoke more curiosity to discover the name of that brilliant wight, whose pretensions are so commanding, and whose phrases are so fortunate. The wit of the second stanza, and the description in the fourth and fifth, of the convivial powers of the duke of Norfolk, one of the most jovial of Comus' crew; the classical antithesis, in the seventh stanza, and the Epicurean wish at the close of this festive ode, are all of the Horatian character,
HORACE IN LONDON-BOOK I. ODE XXXI.
Quid dedicatum poscit Apollinem, &c.
WHAT asks the bard, who first invades,
With votive verse, Apollo's shrine,
Thee, male Duenna of the Nine?
Not venison, darling of the Church,
Mutton will serve his turn as well,
He spurns the fat, to sound the sliell!