Should symptoms of speeching preak out on a dunce

(Vat is often de case), it vill stop de disease,

And pring avay all de long speeches at

vonce,

Dat else vould, like tape-worms, come by degrees!

Vill nobodies try my nice Annual Pill, Dat's to purify every ting nashty avay?

Pless ma heart, pless ma heart, let me say vat I vill,

Not a Chrishtian or Shentleman minds vat I say!

"IF" AND "PERHAPS." 2

OH tidings of freedom! oh accents of hope!

Waft, waft them, ye zephyrs, to Erin's blue sea,

And refresh with their sounds every son of the Pope,

From Dingle-a-cooch to far Donaghadee.

"If mutely the slave will endure and and obey,

"Nor clanking his fetters nor breathing his pains,

"His masters perhaps at some far distant day

"May think (tender tyrants!) of loosening his chains."

WRITE on, write on, ye Barons dear,
Ye Dukes, write hard and fast;
The good we 've sought for many a year
Your quills will bring at last.
One letter more, Newcastle, pen,

To match Lord Kenyon's two,
And more than Ireland's host of men,

One brace of Peers will do.

Write on, write on, etc.

Sure never since the precious use
Of pen and ink began,
Did letters writ by fools produce
Such signal good to man.
While intellect, 'mong high and low,
Is marching on, they say,
Give me the Dukes and Lords who go
Like crabs, the other way.

Write on, write on, etc.

Even now I feel the coming light
Even now, could Folly lure
My Lord Mountcashel too to write,
Emancipation 's sure.

By geese (we read in history),

Old Rome was saved from ill; And now to quills of geese we see Old Rome indebted still.

Write on, write on, etc.

Write, write, ye Peers, nor stoop to style,

Nor beat for sense about — Things little worth a Noble's while You 're better far without.

While Plaintiff fills the preacher's

station,

Defendants form the congregation.

So lives he, Mammon's priest, not
Heaven's,

For tenths thus all at sixes and sevens, •
Seeking what parsons love no less
Than tragic poets- - a good distress.
Instead of studying St. Augustin,
Gregory Nyss., or old St. Justin
(Books fit only to hoard dust in),

His reverence stints his evening readings To learned Reports of Tithe Proceedings,

Sipping the while that port so ruddy,
Which forms his only ancient study;
Port so old, you 'd swear its tartar
Was of the age of Justin Martyr,
And, had he sipt of such, no doubt
His martyrdom would have been
gout.

- to

Is all then lost? alas, too true
Ye Tenths beloved, adieu, adieu !
My reign is o'er, my reign is o'er -
Like old Thumb's ghost, "I can no
more."

Presents of the mode in which Ireland has been

Made a tid-bit for yours and your brethren's amusement:

Tied down to the stake, while her limbs, as they quiver,

A slow fire of tyranny wastes by degrees

No wonder disease should have swelled up her liver,

No wonder you, Gourmands, should love her disease.

IRISH ANTIQUITIES. ACCORDING to some learned opinions The Irish once were Carthaginians; But trusting to more late descriptions I'd rather say they were Egyptians. My reason 's this: the Priests of Isis, When forth they marched in long array, Employed, 'mong other grave devices, A Sacred Ass to lead the way; 3 And still the antiquarian traces

'Mong Irish Lords this Pagan plan, For still in all religious cases They put Lord Roden in the van.

A CURIOUS FACT.

THE present Lord Kenyon (the Peer who writes letters,

For which the waste-paper folks much are his debtors)

Hath one little oddity well worth reciting, Which puzzleth observers even more than his writing.

Whenever Lord Kenyon doth chance to behold

A cold Apple-pie — mind, the pie must be cold

His Lordship looks solemn (few people know why),

And he makes a low bow to the said apple-pie.

This idolatrous act, in so "vital" a Peer, Is by most serious Protestants thought rather queer

Pie-worship, they hold, coming under the head

3 To this practice the ancient adage alludes, "asinus portans mysteria."