SATIRICAL ELEGY ON THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH His Grace! Impossible! What-dead! Of old age, too, and in his bed! And could that mighty warrior fall, Well, since he 's gone, no matter how, The last loud trump must wake him now; And could he be indeed so old Nor widow's sighs, nor orphan's tears, Come hither, all ye empty things! Turn'd to that dirt from whence he sprung. -SWIFT. THE USEFUL YOUNG MAN. WHAT! make myself useful!-indeed, ma'am, I can't- What! come when I'm call'd, and do just as desir'd, I know how they're used by the merciless fair-- But endless his ills when he goes to a rout,— When the party breaks up and the dancing is done, 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; Go wash my neck and sleeves, because this shirt is dirty. Mind what your signor begs, Ven you vash, don't scrub so harda, You may Vile rub my shirt to rags. you 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 KILLING A BLUE BOTTLE. AT Neufchatel, in France, where they prepare But as salt-water made their charms increase, This damsel had to help her on the farm, In fact a gaby, And such a glutton when you came to feed him, (Vide the Ballad,) scarcely could exceed him. Of cream, like nectar, And wouldn't go to church (good careful soul) Watch it he did—and never took his eyes off, Like my Lord Salisbury, he heaved a sigh, How I do envy your lot!" Each moment did his appetite grow stronger; 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 atom; To which he gave not separate replies, "The flies, you rogue !—the flies, you greedy dog I'll make you tell another story quickly." |