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First, PITT,' the chosen of England, taught her
A taste for famine, fire, and slaughter.
Then came the Doctor,2 for our ease,
With E-D-NS, CH-TH-MS, H-WK-B-S,
And other deadly maladies.

When each, in turn, had run their rigs,
Necessity brought in the Whigs :3
And oh, I blush, I blush to say,

When these, in turn, were put to flight, too,
Illustrious T-MP-E flew away

With lots of pens he had no right to !4 In short, what will not mortal man do?5

And now, that-strife and bloodshed pastWe've done on earth what harm we can do,

We gravely take to Heaven at last!6 And think its favouring smile to purchase (Oh Lord, good Lord!) by-building churches!

No IV.

BOB GREGSON,

POET LAUREATE OF THE FANCY.

another evident intimation of the congeniality supposed to exist between the exercises of the Imagination and those of THE FANCY. To no one at the present day is the double wreath more justly due than to Mr BOB GREGSON. In addition to his numerous original productions, he has condescended to give imitations of some of our living poets-particularly of Lord Byron and Mr Moore; and the amatory style of the latter gentleman has been caught, with peculiar [felicity, in the following lines, which were addressed, some years ago, to MISS GRACE MADDOX, a young Lady of pugilistic celebrity, of whom I have already made honourable mention in the Preface.

LINES

TO MISS GRACE MADDOX, THE FAIR PUGILIST.
Written in imitation of the style of Moore.

BY BOB GREGSON, P. P.

SWEET Maid of the Fancy!-whose ogles,' adorning
That beautiful cheek, ever budding like bowers,
Are bright as the gems that the first Jew of morning
Hawks round Covent-Garden, 'mid cart-loads of
flowers!

Oh Grace of the Graces! whose kiss to my lip

« FOR hitting and getting away (says the elegant Au-
thor of Boxiana) RICHMOND is distinguished; and the
brave MOLINEUX keeps a strong hold in the circle of
boxers, as a pugilist of the first class; while the CHAM-
PION OF ENGLAND stands unrivalled for his punishment,
game, and milling on the retreat!—but, notwithstand-
ing the above variety of qualifications, it has been re-
served for BOB GREGSON, alone, from his union of PU-Ah, never be false to me, fair as thou art,

Is as sweet as the brandy and tea, rather thinnish,
That Knights of the Rumpad3 so rurally sip,
At the first blush of dawn, in the Tap of the Finish 14

Nor belie all the many kind things thou hast said;

GILISM and POETRY, to recount the deeds of his Brethren of the Fist in heroic verse, like the bards of old, sound-The falsehood of other nymphs touches the Heart,

ing the praises of their warlike champions.»> The same author also adds, that «although not possessing the terseness and originality of Dryden, or the musical ca

dence and correctness of Pope, yet still BOB has entered into his peculiar subject with a characteristic energy and apposite spirit.» Vol. i, p. 357.

This high praise of Mr GREGSON's talents is fully borne out by the specimen which his eulogist has given, page 358-a very spirited Chaunt, or Nemean ode, entitled British Lads and Black Millers.»

The connexion between poetical and pugnacious propensities seems to have been ingeniously adumbrated by the ancients, in the bow with which they armed Apollo:

Φοίβω γαρ και ΤΟΞΟΝ επιτρέπεται και ΑΟΙΔΗ. Callimach. Hymn. in Apollin. v. 44. The same mythological bard informs us that, when Minerva bestowed the gift of inspiration upon Tiresias, she also made him a present of a large cudgel:

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But THY fibbing, my dear, plays the dev'l with the
Head!

Yet, who would not prize, beyond honours and pelf,
That, ah! she not only has black eyes herself,
A maid to whom Beauty such treasures has granted,

But can furnish a friend with a pair, too, if wanted!
Lord ST-W-RT 'S a hero (as many suppose),

And the Lady he woos is a rich and a rare one; His heart is in Chancery, every one knows,

And so would his head be, if thou wert his fair one.

Sweet Maid of the Fancy! when love first came o'er me,
I felt rather queerish, I freely confess;
But now I've thy beauties each moment before me,

The pleasure grows more, and the queerishness less.

Thus a new set of darbies,5 when first they are worn,
Makes the Jail-bird uneasy, though splendid their

ray;

But the links will lie lighter the longer they 're borne,
And the comfort increase, as the shine fades away!

Eyes.

By the trifling alteration of dew into « Jew," Mr Gregson has contrived to collect the three chief ingredients of Moore's poetry, viz. dews, gems, and flowers, into the short compass of these two lines. 3 Highwaymen.

4 See Note, page 164. Brandy and tea is the favourite beverage at the Finish.

5 Fetters.

• Prisoner-This being the only bird in the whole range of Ornithology which the author of Lalla Rookh has not pressed into his service, Mr Gregson may consider himself very lucky in being able to lay hold of it.

I had hoped that it would have been in my power to gratify the reader with several of Mr GREGSON's lyrical productions, but I have only been able to procure copies of Two Songs, or Chaunts, which were written by him for a Masquerade, or Fancy Ball, given lately at one of the most Fashionable Cock-and-Hen clubs in St Giles's. Though most of the company were without characters, there were a few very lively and interesting maskers; among whom, we particularly noticed BILL RICHMOND, as the Emperor of Hayti,' attended by SUTTON, as a sort of black Mr V-NS-T-T; and IKEY PIG made an excellent L-s D-XH-T. The beautiful Mrs CROCKEY, who keeps the Great Rag Shop in Bermondsey, went as the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street. She was observed to flirt a good deal with the black Mr V-NS-T-T, but, to do her justice, she guarded her Hesperidum mala» with all the vigilance of a dragoness. JACK HOLMES,3 the pugilistic Coachman, personated Lord C-ST-R-GH, and sang in admirable style

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Ya-hip, my Hearties! here am I

That drive the Constitution Fly.

This Song (which was written for him by Mr GREGSON, and in which the language and sentiments of Coachee are transferred so ingeniously to the Noble person represented) is as follows:

YA-HIP, MY HEARTIES!

Sung by JACK HOLMES, the Coachman, at a late Masquerade in St.
Giles's, in the Character of Lord C-ST-K-GH.

I FIRST was hired to peg a Hack4
They call The Erin,» sometime back,
Where soon I learn'd to patter flash,5
To curb the tits and tip the lash--
Which pleased the Master of THE CROWN
So much, he had me up to town,
And gave me lots of quids? a year,
To tools «The Constitution» here.

So, ya-hip, Hearties! here am I
That drive the Constitution Fly.

Some wonder how the Fly holds out,
So rotten 't is, within, without;
So loaded too, through thick and thin,
And with such heavy creturs In.
But, Lord, 't will last our time-or if
The wheels should, now and then, get stiff,

Oil of Palm's the thing that, flowing, Sets the naves and felloes3 going!

So, ya-hip, Hearties! etc.

Some wonder, too, the tits that pull
This rum concern along, so full,
Should never back or bolt, or kick
The load and driver to Old Nick.
But, never fear-the breed, though British,
Is now no longer game or skittish;
Except sometimes about their corn,
Tamer Houyhnhnms3 ne'er were born.
So, ya-hip, Hearties! etc.

And then so sociably we ride!—
While some have places, snug, inside,
Some hoping to be there anon,
Through many a dirty road hang on.
And when we reach a filthy spot
(Plenty of which there are, God wot),
You'd laugh to see, with what an air
We take the spatter-each his share!
So, ya-hip, Hearties! etc.

The other song of Mr Gregson, which I have been lucky enough to lay hold of, was sung by Old Prosy, the Jew, who went in the character of Major C-RTW-GHT, and who having been, at one time of his life, apprentice to a mountebank doctor, was able to enumerate, with much volubility, the virtues of a certain infallible nostrum, which he called his ANNUAL PILL. The pronunciation of the Jew added considerably to the effect.

THE ANNUAL PILL.

Sung by OLD PROSY, the Jew, in the Character of Major C-RTW—GHT. VILL nobodies try my nice Annual Pill,

Dat's to purify every ting nashty avay? Pless ma heart, pless ma heart, let ma say vat I vill, Not a Chrishtian or Shentleman minds vat I say! 'T is so pretty a bolus!--just down let it go, And at vonce, such a radical shange you vill see, Dat I'd not be surprish'd, like de horse in de show, If our heads all were found, vere our tailsh ought to be! Vill nobodies try my nice Annual Pill, etc.

'T will cure all Electors, and purge avay clear
Dat mighty bad itching dey 've got in deir hands-
'T will cure, too, all Statesmen, of dullness, ma tear,
Though the case vas as desperate as poor Mister VAN'S.

His Majesty (in a Song which I regret I cannot give) professed Dere is noting at all vat dis Pill will not reach

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'T would be tedious, ma tear, all its peauties to paintBut, among oder tings fundamentally wrong, It vill cure de Proad Pottom-a common complaint Among M.P's. and weavers-from sitting too long.1 Should symptoms of speeching preak out on a dunce, (Vat is often de case) it will stop de disease, And pring avay all de long speeches at vonce,

Dat else vould, like tape-vorms, 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 ma say vat I will, Not a Chrishtian or Shentleman minds vat I say!

No V.

The following poem is also from the Morning Chronicle, and has every appearance of being by the same pen as the two others I have quoted. The Examiner, indeed, in extracting it from the Chronicle, says, we think we can guess whose easy and sparkling hand it is.»

TO SIR HUDSON LOWE.

Effare causam nominis,

Utrum ne mores hoc tui

Nomen dedere, an nomen hoc Secuta morum regula.

AUSONIUS.

SIR Hudson Lowe, Sir Hudson Low (By name, and ah! by nature so),

As thou art fond of persecutions, Perhaps thou 'st read, or heard repeated, How Captain Gulliver was treated, When thrown among the Lilliputians.

They tied him down-these little men did-
And having valiantly ascended

Upon the Mighty Man's protuberance,
They did so strut!-upon my soul,
It must have been extremely droll
To see their pigmy pride's exuberance!

And how the doughty mannikins
Amused themselves with sticking pins

And needles in the great man's breeches;
And how some very little things,
That pass'd for Lords, on scaffoldings

Got up and worried him with speeches.

Alas, alas! that it should happen
To mighty men to be caught napping!-
Though different, too, these persecutions;
For Gulliver, there, took the nap,
While, here, the Nap, oh sad mishap,
Is taken by the Lilliputians!

Rhymes on the Road,

EXTRACTED FROM THE JOURNAL

OF A

TRAVELLING MEMBER OF THE POCOCURANTE SOCIETY, 1819.

THE Gentleman, from whose Journal the following extracts are taken, was obliged to leave England some years ago (in consequence of an unfortunate attachment, which might have ended in bringing him into Doctors' Commons), and has but very recently been able to return to England. The greater part of these poems were, as he himself mentions in his Introduction, written or composed in an old calèche, for the purpose of beguiling the ennui of solitary travelling; and as verses made by a gentleman in his sleep have lately been called «a psychological curiosity,» it is to be hoped that verses made by a gentleman to keep himself awake may be honoured with some appellation equally Greek.

Meaning, I presume, Coalition Administrations.

* Whether sedentary habits have any thing to do with this peculiar shape, I cannot determine, but that some have supposed a sort of connexion between them, appears from the following remark, quoted in Kornmann's curious book, de Virginitatis Jure- Ratio perquam lepida est apud Kirchner, in Legato, cum natura illas partes, quæ ad sessionem sunt destinatæ, latiores in fœminis fecerit quam in viris, innuens domi eas manere debere.-Cap. 40.

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Declares the clock-work of the head
Goes best in that reclined position.
If you consult MONTAIGNE' and PLINY on
The subject, 't is their joint opinion
That Thought its richest harvest yields
Abroad, among the woods and fields;
That bards, who deal in small retail,

At home may, at their counters, stop;
But that the grove, the hill, the vale,
Are Poesy's true wholesale shop.

And truly I suspect they 're right—

For many a time, on summer eves, Just at that closing hour of light,

When, like an eastern Prince, who leaves For distant war his Haram bowers, The Sun bids farewell to the flowers, Whose heads are sunk, whose tears are flowing 'Mid all the glory of his goingEven I have felt beneath those beams,

When wand'ring through the fields alone, Thoughts, fancies, intellectual gleams, That, far too bright to be my own, Seem'd lent me by the Sunny Power, That was abroad at that still hour.

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There was a hero 'mong the Danes,
Who wrote, we're told, 'mid all the pains

And horrors of exenteration,

Nine charming odes, which, if you look,
You'll find preserved, with a translation,
By BARTHOLINUS in his book.3

1 Mes pensées dorment, si je les assis.-MONTAIGNE. Animus eorum, qui in aperto aêre ambulant, attollitur.-PLINY. 2 The only authority I know for imputing this practice to Plato and Herodotus, is a Latin poem by M. de Valois on his Bed, in which he says:

Lucifer Herodotum vidit vesperque cubantem;
Desedit totos hic Plato sæpe dies.

Eadem cura nec minores inter cruciatus animam infelicem agenti fuit Asbiorno Pruda Danico heroi, cum Bruso ipsum, intestina extrahens, immaniter torqueret, tunc enim novem carmina cecinit, etc.-BARTHOLIN, de cassis contempt, mort.

In short, 't were endless to recite

The various modes in which men write.

Some wits are only in the mind

When beaux and belles are round them prating: Some, when they dress for dinner, find

Their muse and valet both in waiting,
And manage, at the self-same time,
To adjust a neckcloth and a rhyme.

Some bards there are who cannot scribble
Without a glove, to tear or nibble,

Or a small twig to whisk about

As if the hidden founts of Fancy,
Like those of water, were found out

By mystic tricks of rhabdomancy.
Such was the little feathery wand'
That, held for ever in the hand
Of her who won and wore the crown
Of female genius in this age,
Seem'd the conductor, that drew down
Those words of lightning on her

As for myself to come at last,

page.

To the odd way in which I write-
Having employed these few months past
Chiefly in travelling, day and night,
I've got into the easy mode,
You see, of rhyming on the road-
Making a way-bill of my pages,
Counting my stanzas by my stages—
'Twixt lays and re-lays no time lost-
In short, in two words, writing post.
My verses, I suspect, not ill
Resembling the crazed vehicle

(An old calèche, for which a villain
Charged me some twenty Naps at Milan)
In which I wrote them-patch'd-up things,
On weak, but rather easy, springs,
Jingling along, with little in 'em,

And (where the road is not so rough,
Or deep, or lofty, as to spin 'em,

Down precipices) safe enough,—
Too ready to take fire, I own,
And then, too, nearest a break-down;
But, for my comfort, hung so low,
I have n't, in falling, far to go.-

With all this, light, and swift, and airy,
And carrying (which is best of all)
But little for the Doganieri

Of the Reviews to overhaul.

RHYMES ON THE ROAD.

EXTRACT I.

Geneva.

View of the Lake of Geneva from the Jura.3-Anxious to reach it before the Sun went down.-Obliged to proceed on Foot.-Alps.-Mont Blanc.-Effect of the Scene.

"T WAS late-the sun had almost shone

His last and best, when I ran on,

1 Made of paper, twisted up like a fan or feather.

* Custom-house officers.

3 Between Vattay and Gox.

Anxious to reach that splendid view
Before the day-beams quite withdrew;
And feeling as all feel, on first

Approaching scenes where, they are told, Such glories on their eyes shall burst

As youthful bards in dreams behold.
"T was distant yet, and, as I ran,
Full often was my wistful gaze
Turn'd to the sun, who now began
To call in all his out-post rays,
And form a denser march of light,
Such as beseems a hero's flight.

Oh, how I wish'd for Joshua's power,
To stay the brightness of that hour!
But no-the sun still less became,

Diminish'd to a speck, as splendid
And small as were those tongues of flame,
That on th' Apostles' heads descended!

"T was at this instant-while there glow'd This last, intensest gleam of lightSuddenly, through the opening road,

The valley burst upon my sight! That glorious valley, with its lake,

And Alps on Alps in clusters swelling, Mighty, and pure, and fit to make

The ramparts of a Godhead's dwelling!

I stood entranced and mute-as they
Of ISRAEL think th' assembled world
Will stand upon that awful day,

When the Ark's Light, aloft unfurl'd, Among the opening clouds shall shine, Divinity's own radiant sign!

Mighty MONT BLANC! thou wert to me, That minute, with thy brow in Heaven, As sure a sign of Deity

As e'er to mortal gaze was given.

Nor ever, were I destined yet

To live my life twice o'er again,

Can I the deep-felt awe forget

The ecstasy that thrill'd me then!

"T was all that consciousness of
power,
And life, beyond this mortal hour,—
Those mountings of the soul within
At thoughts of Heaven-as birds begin
By instinct in the cage to rise,

When near their time for change of skies-
That proud assurance of our claim

To rank among the Sons of Light, Mingled with shame-oh, bitter shame!At having risk'd that splendid right, For aught that earth, through all its range Of glories, offers in exchange!

"T was all this, at the instant brought,
Like breaking sunshine, o'er my thought-
'T was all this, kindled to a glow

Of sacred zeal, which, could it shine
Thus purely ever-man might grow,
Even upon earth, a thing divine,
And be once more the creature made
To walk unstain'd the Elysian shade!

No-never shall I lose the trace
Of what I've felt in this bright place.

And should my spirit's hope grow weak;
Should I, oh GOD! e'er doubt thy power,
This mighty scene again I'll seek,

At the same calm and glowing hour,
And here, at the sublimest shrine
That Nature ever rear'd to Thee,
Rekindle all that hope divine,
And feel my immortality!

EXTRACT II.

Venice.

The Fall of Venice not to be lamented.-Former Glory. -Expedition against Constantinople.— Giustinianis.-Republic.-Characteristics of the old Government. Golden Book.- Brazen Mouths.- Spies.Dungeons.-Present Desolation.

MOURN not for VENICE-let her rest

In ruin, 'mong those States unbless'd,
Beneath whose gilded hoofs of pride,
Where'er they trampled, Freedom died.
No-let us keep our tears for them,

Where'er they pine, whose fall hath been
Not from a blood-stain'd diadem,
Like that which deck'd this ocean-queen,
But from high daring in the cause
Of human Rights-the only good
And blessed strife, in which man draws
His powerful sword on land or flood.

Mourn not for VENICE-though her fall
Be awful, as if Ocean's wave
Swept o'er her-she deserves it all,

And Justice triumphs o'er her grave.
Thus perish every King and State
That run the guilty race she ran,
Strong but in fear, and only great
By outrage against GoD and man!

True, her high spirit is at rest,

And all those days of glory gone, When the world's waters, east and west,

Beneath her white-wing'd commerce shone; When, with her countless barks she went To meet the Orient Empire's might,'

And the GIUSTINIANIS sent

Their hundred heroes to that fight.2

Vanish'd are all her pomps, 't is true,

But mourn them not-for, vanish'd, too, (Thanks to that Power, who, soon or late, Hurls to the dust the guilty Great), Are all the outrage, falsehood, fraud,

The chains, the rapine, and the blood, That fill'd each spot, at home, abroad, Where the Republic's standard stood!

Desolate VENICE! when I track

Thy haughty course through centuries back,—

1 Under the doge Michaeli, in 1171.

La famille entière des Justiniani, l'une des plus illustres de Venise, voulut marcher toute entière dans cette expedition; elle fournit cent combattans; c'était renouveler l'exemple d'une illustre famille de Rome; le même malheur les attendait.--Histoire de Venise, par DARU.

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