Obrazy na stronie

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,
'Tis nonsense for trifles, I own, to be piping;

But they that han’t pity, why I pities they.
Says our Captain, says he, (I shall never forget it)

If of courage you'd know, lads, the true from the sham;
'Tis a furious lion, in battle, so let it,

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;
Swearing, he, for his part, had no notion of sparing,

For as to a foe, why he'd eat him alive!
But when that he found a poor pris’ner, he'd wounded,

Who once sav'd his life, as near drowning he swam,
The lion was tam'd, and with pity confounded,

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,
Is nothing at all; 'tis the poor wounded stranger,

And the poorer, the more I should succour distress.
For, however their duty bold tars may delight in,

And peril defy as a bug-bear, or flam,
The lion may feel surly pleasure in fighting,

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;
And thus-'tis that ev'ry tight lad of the ocean,

Sheds his blood for his country, his tears for his friend.
If my maxim's diseas’d,"tis disease I shall die on;

You may snigger, and titter, I don't care a damn!
In me let the foe feel the paw of a lion;

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,
As far exceeds all earthly bliss,

That God or nature hath assign’d:
Though much I want, that most would have,
Yet still my mind forbids to crava.

si Content to live, this is my stay;

I seek no more than may suffice:
I press to bear no haughty sway,

Look, what I lack, MY MIND SUPPLIES.
10! thus I triumph like a king,
Content with what my mind doth bring.

* I see how plenty surfeits oft,

And hasty climbers soonest fall,
I see that such as sit aloft,

Mishap doth threaten most of all:
These get with toil, and keep with fcar,
Such cares my mind could never bear.

“ No princely pomp, nor wealthy store,

No force to win a victory,
Vo wily wit to salve a sore,

No shape to win a lover's eye.
To none of these 1 yield as thrall,
For why? my mind despiseth all.

“Some have too much, yet still they crave;

I little have, yet seek for more,
They are but poor, though much they have,

And I am rich with little store:
They poor, I rich; they beg, I give,
They lack, I lend: they pine, I live

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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 wine is ruby bright,
The reign of pleasure is restor'd,

Of ease and gay delight;
The day is gone, this night's our own,

Then let us feast the soul;
If any pain or care remain,

Let's drown it in the bowl.

This world they say's a world of wo,

But that I must deny,
Can sorrow from the goblet flow,

Or pain from Beauty's eye!
The wise are fools, with all their rules,

They would our joys control;
If life's a pain, I say again,

Let's drown it in the bowl.

VOL. v.

3 B

That Time flies fast, the poets sing,

Then surely it is wise,

And seize him as he flies;
This night is ours, then strew with flowers,

The moments as they roll,
If any pain or care remain,

Why drown it in the bowl.


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,



Quid dedicatum poscit Apollinem, &c.

WHAT asks the bard, who first invades,

With votive verse, Apollo's shrine,
And luls, with midnight serenades,

Thee, male Duenna of the Nine?

Not venison, darling of the Church,

Mutton will serve his turn as well,
Nor costly turtle, drest by Birch,

He spurns the fat, to sound the sliell!

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