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SATIRICAL ELEGY ON THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGE

-SWIFT.

His Grace! Impossible! What-dead!
Of old age, too, and in his bed !
And could that mighty warrior fall,
And so inglorious, after all ?
Well, since he's gone, no matter how,
The last loud trump must wake him now;
And, trust me, as the noise grows stronger,
He'd wish to sleep a little longer.
And could he be indeed so old
As by the newspapers we 're told ?
Threescore, I think, is pretty high ;
'Twas time, in conscience, he should die !
This world he cumber'd long enough ;
He burnt his candle to the snuff.
Behold! his funeral appears ;
Nor widow's sighs, nor orphan's tears,
Wont at such times each heart to pierce,
Attend the progress of his hearse.
But what of that? his friends may say,
He had those honors in his day.
True to his profit and his pride,
He made them weep before he died.

Come hither, all ye empty things !
Ye bubbles raised by breath of kings!
Who float upon the tide of state,-
Come hither,

fate!
Let pride be taught by this rebuke,
How very mean a thing 's a duke,
From all his ill-got honors flung,
Turn'd to that dirt from whence he sprung.

and behold

your

THE USEFUL YOUNG MAN.

WHAT! make myself useful !--indeed, ma'am, I can't-
'Tis not my vocation, and really I shan't.
What! come when I'm call'd, and do just as desir’d,
Then take myself off when no longer requir'd,
Run, jump, fetch and carry, live but to obey,
Then barely be thank'd, and kick'd out of the way!
That forms, I assure you, no part of my plan--
Indeed, ma'am, I am not a useful young

man.

I know how they're used by the merciless fair-
'Tis Tom, pray, come here; or 'tis Tom, pray, go there,
Or Tom, my good creature, just pop on your hat,
And borrow me this thing, or purchase us that;
Or make yourself useful, and change us this book ;
Or write us a passage from Moore's Lalla Rookh ;
Or I know you'll oblige us to fasten this fan ;-
Oh, dear! what a drudge is a useful young man !

But endless his ills when he goes to a rout,-
La! Mary, my dear, there's Miss Cross sitting out;
Do find her a swain ;-then they look the beaux o'er,
And the useful young man's trotted up to the bore;
Or, while snuffing the candles, the good-natured pet
Is dragged from the tea-room to make up a set,
Where turban'd old ladies will dance if they can,
While they snap, sneer, and snarl, at the useful young man.

When the party breaks up and the dancing is done,
'Midst the last dying flashes of folly and fun,
Should some bright-eyed girl have to go home alone,
By some rude, selfish fellow she's seized, ten to one;
While the useful young man shivers off through the snow,
With some ugly old maid that's a long way to go ;
For such are the ladies that always trepan
That poor helpless victim, the useful young man!

OPERA SINGERS AND DANCERS.-ANON.

MAINTAINED by the public in all the luxury of extravagance; while in the back ground are a maimed soldier and sailor, who were asking alms, and thrown down by the insolence of the opera-singer's carriage driver; yet the sailor lost his arm with the gallant Captain Decatur, and the soldier left his leg on the plains of Mexico. Instead of paying five dollars to see a man stand on one leg—would it not be better employed were it given to a man who had but one leg to stand on? But, while these dear creatures condescend to come over here, to sing to us for the trifling sum of eight or ten thousand dollars yearly, in return for such their condescension, we cannot do too much for them, and that is the reason why we do so little for our own people. This is the way we reward those who only bring folly into the country, and the other is the way and the only way, with which we reward our brave defenders. Fancy you hear the divine strains of Signor Squallo

Come, Carro, come attend affetuoso,
English be dumb, your language is but so so;
Adagio is piano, allegro must be forte,
Go wash my neck and sleeves, because this shirt is dirty.
Mon charmant, prenez guarda,
Mind what your signor begs,
Ven you vash, don't scrub so harda,

shirt to rags.
Vile
you

You may

rub
my

make de vater hotter--
Uno solo I compose.
Put in de pot de nice sheep's trotter,
And de lee-tle petty toes;
De petty toes are lee-tle feet,
De lee-tle feet not big,
Great feet belong to de grunting hog,
De petty toes to de leetle pig.
Come, daughter, dear, carissima anima mea,
Go boil de kittle, make me some green tea a,

Ma bella dolce sogno,
Vid de tea, cream, and sugar bono,
And a leetle slice
Of bread and butter nice.
A bravo bread, and butter
Bravissimo-imo.

KILLING A BLUE BOTTLE.

Ar Neufchatel, in France, where they prepare

Cheeses that set us longing to be mites, There dwelt a farmer's wife, famed for her rare

Skill in these small quadrangular delights, Where they were made, they sold for the immense

Price of three sous a-piece ;

But as salt-water made their charms increase, In England the fix'd rate was eighteen-pence.

This damsel had to help her on the farm,

To milk her cows and feed her hogs, A Gascon peasant, with a sturdy arm

For digging or for carrying logs,
But in his noddle weak as any baby,

In fact a gaby,
And such a glutton when you came to feed him,

That Wantley's dragon, who ate barns and churches,

As if they were geese and turkies,
(Vide the Ballad,) scarcely could exceed him.
One morn she had prepared a monstrous bowl

Of cream, like nectar,
And wouldn't go to church (good careful soul)

Till she had left it safe with a protector;
So she gave strict injunctions to the Gascon,
To watch it while his mistress was to mass gone.

Watch it he did--and never took his eyes off,

But licked his upper, then his under lip,
And doubled up his fist to drive the flies off,
Begrudging them the smallest sip,

Which if they got,
Like my Lord Salisbury, he heaved a sigh,
And cried, happy, happy fly,

How I do envy your lot !"
Each moment did his appetite grow stronger ;

His bowels yearn'd;
At length he could not bear it any longer,

But on all sides his looks he turn'd,
And finding that the coast was clear, he quaff'd
The whole up at a draught.

Scudding from church, the farmer's wife flew to the dairy;
But stood aghast, and could not, for her life,

One sentence mutter,
Until she summon'd breath enough to utter

“Holy St. Mary!"
And shortly, with a face of scarlet,

The vixen (for she was a vixen) flew
Upon the varlet,
Asking the when, and where, and how, and who,

Had gulph'd her cream, nor left an atoni ;
To which he gave not separate replies,

But with a look of excellent digestion
One answer made to every question,

“The Flies!”

“ The flies, you rogue !—the flies, you greedy dog

Behold your whiskers still are covered thickly ;
Thief-liar-villain--gormandizer-hog!

I'll make you tell another story quickly."
So out she bounced, and brought, with loud alarms,

Two stout Gens-d'Armes,

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