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Such is the calm of your retreat ?
You thro' the dregs of life must sweat

Beneath this heavy load;
And I'll attend you as I've done,
Only to help reflection on,
With now and then an ode.

Sir Charles H. Williams,



What statesman, what hero, what king,

Whose name thro' the island is spread,
Will you choose, oh, my Clio, to sing,

Of all the great living, or dead ?
Go, my muse, from this place to Japan,

In search of a topic for rhyme;
The great Earl of Bath is the man

Who deserves to employ your whole time. But, howe'er, as the subject is nice,

And perhaps you're unfurnish'd with matter, May it please you to take my advice,

That you mayn't be suspected to flatter. When you touch on his Lordship's high birth,

Speak Latin as if you were tipsy, Say, we all are the sons of tbe earth,

Et genus non fecimus ipsi. Pruclaim him as rich as a Jew,

Yet attempt not to reckon his bounties; You may say, he is married—that's true

Yet speak not a word of his Countess. Leave a blank here and there in each page,

To enrol the fair deeds of his youth ! When you mention the acts of his age,

Leave a blank for his-honour and truth.
Say he made a great monarch change hands;

He spake, and the minister fell;
Say he made a great statesman of Sandys ;

O that he had taught him to spell !

Then enlarge on his cunning and wit,

Say how he harangued at the Fountain :
Say how the old Patriots were bit,

And a mouse was produced by a mountain.
Then say how he mark'd the new year

By increasing our taxes and stocks;
Then say how he changed to a Peer,
Fit companion for Edgcumbe and Fox.

Sir Charles H. Williams.



Upon a late Occasion.
WELL may they, Wentworth, call thee young ;
What, hear and feel! sift right from wrong,

And to a wretch be kind !
Old statesmen would reverse your plan,
Sink, in the minister, the man,

And be both deaf and blind.

If thus, my Lord, your heart o'erflows,
Know you, how many mighty foes

Such weakness will create you?
Regard not what Fitzherbert says,
For though you gain each good man's praise,

We older folks shall hate you.
You should have sent, the other day,
Garrick, the player, with frowns away;

Your smiles but made him bolder:
Why would you hear his strange appeal,
Which dared to make a statesman feel ?-

I would that you were older.
You should be proud, and seem displeased,
Or you forever will be teased,

Your house with beggars haunted
What, every suitor kindly used ?
If wrong, their folly is excused,

If right, their suit is granted.

From pressing words of great and small
To free yourself, give hopes to all,

And fail nineteen in twenty :
What, wound my honour, break my word ?
You're young again, --you may, my Lord,

Have precedents, in plenty!
Indeed, young Statesman, 'twill not do, --
Some other ways and means pursue,

More fitted to your station:
What from your boyish freaks can spring ?
Mere toys!—The favour of your king,
And love of all the nation.

David Garrick,



ABOUT fifty years since, in the days of our daddies,

That plan was commenced which the wise now applauci, Of shipping off Ireland's most turbulent Paddies,

As good raw materials for settlers, abroad. Some West Indian Island, whose name I forget,

Was the region then chosen for this scheme so romantic ; And such the success the first colony met,

That a second, soon after, set sail o'er the Atlantic. Behold them now safe at the long look'd-for shore,

Sailing in between banks that the Shannon might greet, And thinking of friends whom, but two years before,

They, had sorrow'd to lose, but would soon again meet. And, hark ! from the shore a glad welcome there came

Arrah, Paddy from Cork, is it you, my sweet boy?" While Pat stood astounded, to hear his own name

Thus hail'd by black devils, who caper'd for joy! Can it possibly be ?-half amazement-half doubt,

Pat listens again-rubs his eyes and looks steady ; Then heaves a deep sigh, and in horror yells out,

“Good Lord ! only think-black and curly already!”

Deceived by that well-mimick'd brogue in his ears,

Pat read his own doom in these wool-headed figures, And thought, what a climate, in less than two years, To turn a whole cargo of Pats into niggers !

MORAL. 'Tis thus, but alas ! by a moral more true

Than is told in this rival of Ovid's best stories, Your Whigs, when in office a short year or two,

By a lusus naturæ, all turn into Tories. And thus, when I hear them “strong measures ” advise,

Ere the seats that they sit on have time to get steady, I say, while I listen, with tears in my eyes, “Good Lord !-only think-black and curly already!”

Thomas Moore.




“ NEEDY knife-grinder! whither are you going ?
Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order-
Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in't,

So have your breeches !
Weary knife-grinder! little think the proud ones,
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike.
Road, what hard work ’tis crying all day, “Knives and

Scissors to grind O!'
“Tell me, knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives?
Did some rich man tyrannically use you?
Was it the squire ? or parson of the parish ?

Or the attorney ?
“Was it the squire for killing of his game? or
Covetous parson for his tithes distraining ?
Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little

All in a law-suit ?
" (Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine ?)
Drops of compassion tremble on my eye-lids,
Ready to fall as soon as you have told your

Pitiful story."


Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir,
Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers,
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were

Torn in the scuffle,

“ Constable came up for to take me into Custody; they took me before the Justice; Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish

Stocks for a vagrant.

“I should be glad to drink your honour's health in
A pot of beer, if you would give me sixpence;
But, for my part, I never love to meddle

With politics, sir.”


I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damned firstWretch! whom no sense of wrong can rouse to vengeanceSordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,

Spiritless outcast!" (Kicks the knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and

exit in a transport of republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.)




In matters of commerce, the fault of the Dutch
Is giving too little and asking too much;
With equal advantage the French are content,
So we'll clap on Dutch bottoms a twenty per cent.

Twenty per cent.,

Twenty per cent.,
Nous frapperons Falck with twenty per cent.

The Right Hon. George Canning.

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