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When thronging foemen menace Spain

She dares the deed and shares the danger; And should her lover press the plain,

She hurls the spear, her love's avenger. And when beneath the evening star,

She mingles in the gay Bolero; Or sings to her attuned guitar

Of Christian knight or Moorish hero; Or counts her beads with fairy hand

Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper; Or joins devotion's choral band

To chant the sweet and hallow'd vesper : In each her charms the heart must move

Of all who venture to behold her: Then let not maids less fair reprove,

Because her bosom is not colder ;
Thro' many a clime 'tis mine to roam

Where many a soft and melting maid is,
But none abroad, and few at home,
May match the dark-eyed girl of Cadiz.

Lord Byror.


The time I've lost in wooing,
In watching and pursuing

The light that lies

In woman's eyes,
Has been my heart's undoing.
Tho' Wisdom oft has sought me,
I scorn'd the lore she brought me,

My only books

Were woman's looks,
And folly's all they taught me.
Her smile when Beauty granted,
I hung with gaze enchanted,

Like him the sprite

Whom maids by night
Oft meet in glen that's haunted.
Like him, too, Beauty won me;
But when the spell was on me,

If once their ray

Was turned away,
O! winds could not outrun me.

And are those follies going ?
And is my proud heart growing

Too cold or wise

For brilliant eyes
Again to set it glowing ?
No-vain, alas ! th' endeavour
From bonds so sweet to sever;

Poor Wisdom's chance

Against a glance Is now as weak as ever.

Thomas Moore,


IF I freely may discover
What would please me in my lover,
I would have her faire and wittie,
Savouring more of court than cittie ;
A little proud, but full of pittie :
Light and humorous in her toying,
Oft building hopes, and soone destroying,
Long but sweet in the enjoying,
Neither too easie, nor too hard,
All extremes I would have barr'd.

She should be allow'd her passions,
So they were but used as fashions,
Sometimes froward and then frowning,
Sometimes sickish and then swooning,
Every fit with change still crowning.
Purely jealous, I would have her,
Then onely constant when I crave her.
'Tis a virtue should not save her.
Thus, nor her delicates would cloy me,
Neither her peevishnesse annoy me.

Ben Jonson.



From on board the Lisbon Packet.

HUZZA! Hodgson, we are going,

Our embargo's off at last; Favourable breezes blowing

Bend the canvas o'er the mast. From aloft the signal's streaming,

Hark! the farewell gun is fired; Sailors swearing, women screaming, Tell us that our time's expired.

Here's a rascal

Come to task all,
Prying from the Custom-house;

Trunks unpacking,

Cases cracking:
Not a corner for a mouse
'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket,
Ere we sail on board the Packet.
Now our boatmen quit their mooring,

And all hands must ply the oar;
Baggage from the quay is lowering,

We're impatient-push from shore. “Have a care! that case holds liquor-

Stop the boat-I'm sick-O lord !” “Sick, ma'am, hang it, you'll be sicker Ere you've been an hour on board."

Thus are screaming

Men and women,
Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks;

Here entangling

All are wrangling, Stuck together close as wax, — Such the general noise and racket, Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet. Now we've reach'd her, lo! the Captain,

Gallant Kidd commands the crew; Passengers their berths are clapt in,

Some to grumble--some to spew.

Heyday! call you that a cabin?

Why 'tis hardly three feet square; Not enough to stow Queen Mab inWho the deuce can harbour there?

“Who, sir?- plenty

Nobles twenty
Did at once my vessel fill.”

“Did they? Bacchus,

How you pack us ! Would to Heaven they did so still: Then I'd 'scape the heat and racket Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet.” Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you

Stretch'd along the deck like logsBear a hand you jolly tar, you!

Here's a rope's-end for the dogs. Hobhouse, muttering fearful curses

As the hatchway down he rolls, Now his breakfast, now his verses, Vomits forth—and d-s our souls.

Here's a stanza

On Braganza
Help!"-"A couplet?”—“No, a cup

Of warm water”

“ What's the matter?“Zounds, my liver's coming up; I shall not survive the racket Of this brutal Lisbon Packet.”

Now at length we're off for Turkey,

Lord knows when we shall come back! Breezes foul and tempests murky

May unship us in a crack.
But, since life at most a jest is,

As philosophers allow,
Still to laugh by far the best is,
Then laugh on-as I do now.

Laugh at all things,

Great and small things,
Sick or well, at sea or shore;

While we're quaffing,

Let's have laughing--
Who the devil cares for more?

Some good wine! and who would lack it,
Even on board the Lisbon Packet?

Lord Byron.



As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping,

With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine, When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled,

And all the sweet butter-milk water'd the plain. O, what shall I do now, 'twas looking at you now,

Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again, 'Twas the pride of my dairy, O, Barney M'Leary,

You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine. I sat down beside her,-and gently did chide her,

That such a misfortune should give her such pain, A kiss then I gave her,-before I did leave her,

She vow'd for such pleasure she'd break it again. 'Twas hay-making season, I can't tell the reason,

Misfortunes will never come single, -that's plain,
For, very soon after poor Kitty's disaster,
The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.

Edward Lysaght.



In London I never know what I'd be at,
Enraptured with this, and enchanted with that;
I'm wild with the sweets of variety's plan,
And Life seems a blessing too happy for man.
But the Country, Lord help me ! sets all matters right,
So calm and composing from morning to night;
Oh! it settles the spirits when nothing is seen
But an ass on a common, a goose on a green.
In town if it rain, why it damps not our hope,
The eye has her choice, and the fancy her scope;
What harm though it pour whole nights or whole days?
It spoils not our prospects, or stops not our ways.

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