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A third, written during the former war, and sung to the tune of Ballinamona Ora, possesses considerable point; and as it glanced at some of our allies, who it was thought were at that period more attached to their own individual interests than the general good, became exceedingly popular :

Don't you think it's a pretty political touch-
To keep shooting your gold in the dams of the Dutcb?
Sending troops to be swamp'd where they can't draw their breath?
And buying a load of fresh taxes with death?
" Then your friends, who've been sucking the sap of your skuil,
Now choose to be fed on your fat, Master BULL!
Oh! your whisker-mouth'd Prussian's a bell of a bile-
And your eagle of Austria's a damnable kite!

“ Faith,

your tax-burthen'd sons, John, will bless the dark hour
When the war-whoop of kings and the squeakings of pow'r
Made a nation of Freemen the clamour applaud-
And load their own accks to chain monsters abroad."

But it was the song of “ Billy Pitt and the Farmer" that attracted the most general attention, and continued long in fashion ; the humour reconciling even those who did not always admire the politics.

Of bis miscellaneous performances, the “ Country. and Town” deserves particular mention, as, in the first place, it does not contain any improper or indelicate sentiment, which, we are sorry to observe, cannot be always said of the productions of our modern lyrical poets; and in the next, as it ridicules a country life, which we have good reason to suppose the author himself actually at this moment gives the preference to :

" Your

“ Your jays and your magpies may chatter on trees,

And whisper soft nonsense in groves if they please;
But a house is much more to my mind than a tree,
And for groves, O! a fine grove of chimneys for me!"

Captain Morris some years since received the prize of the gold cup from the Harmonic Society for his Anacreontic song, Ad Poculum, which we shall here transcribe:

“ Come, thou soul-reviving Cup,

And try thy healing art; Light the fancy's visions up,

And warm my wasted heart; Touch with glowing tints of bliss

Mem'ry's fading dream; Give me, while thy lip I kiss,

The heav'n that's in thy stream! " In thy Fount the Lyric Muse

Ever dipp'd her wing, Anacreon fed upon thy'dews,

- And Horace drain'd thy spring! I, too, humblest of the train,

There my spirit find,
Freshen there my languid brain,

1 And store my vacant mind! "When, blest Cup! thy fires divine

Pierce through Time's dark reign, All the joys that once were mine

I snatch from Death again; And, though ost fond anguish rise

O'er my melting mind,
Hope still starts to Sorrow's eyes,

And drinks the tear behind !
Ne'er, sweet Cup, was vot’ry blest

More through life than me;
And that life, with grateful breast,
Thou seest I give to thee :

'Midst thy rose-wreath'd nymphs I pass

Mirth's sweet hours away;
Pleas'd, while Time runs tbro' tbe glass

To Fancy's brighter day!
“Then, magic Cup, again for me

Thy pow'r creative try-
Again let hope-fed Fancy see

A heav'n in Beauty's eye!
O! lift my lighten'd heart away

On Pleasure's downy wing,
And let me taste that bliss to-day

To-morrow may not bring!"

best company.

The subject of this memoir has for many years past moved in the first circles, and frequented the

His Songs “ Political and Con- . vivial” have passed through no less than twenty-four editions. We could wish that they had been in soine places less prurient, and would recommend it to his serious attention to publish a volume of his poetical labours, which, while it would contribute essentially 10 his own reputation, might be read by a modest female without a blush.




ALTHOUGH America no longer appertains to the imperial crown of the British isles, yet its inhabitants are dear to us on many accounts. They are still connected by alliance as well as by commerce; they speak the same language; live under a form of government free like our own, and are descended from the same common ancestors. Every thing relative to them is therefore both heard and read with no common share of interest in this country; and their celebrated men, such as Franklin, Washington, and Jefferson, have been claimed and considered in some measure as our own.

Aaron Burr, late Vice-President of the United States, was born about the year 1755, at Princeton in New-Jersey. His father, a presbyterian clergyman, and president of the college in that place, was a man of considerable learning, and a native of Fairfield in Connecticut.. His mother was the daughter of Jonathan Edwards, of the last-mentioned province; a name famous in controversial theology and metaphysics, whose work on the “Freedom of the Will,” and “ History of Redemption,” are well known in this country, and have ranked their author in the first class of the dialecticians of the last century.

So dextrous was Mr. Edwards in the use of distinctive argument, and exemplary in his life and conversation, as even to epurate the puritans of bis country, and form among the congregationalists a new sect, to which his name has given a sort of organic consistency; they accordingly call themselves Edwardeans.

It is no part of our object to enter into the merits of this controversy, and we leave the theological grand3


father for the political grandson ; who is probably as little solicitous about the tenets of the sect as any of his contemporaries.

Mr. Burr was but an infant when his father died. The grandfather, Mr. Edwards, being nominated to succeed the elder Mr. Burr, his son-in-law, as president of the same college, he also soon after paid the debt of nature, leaving young Aaron still a child : however, having been literally born in a college, he continued there until he took his degrees according to the usual forms. This happened to be about the time that the war of independence broke out, which gave so much and such animated employment to the young men of America.

Mr. Burr, like Mr. Barlow and many others, was immediately translated, if we may make use of such an expression, from the college to the camp. This occurred during the campaign of 1775. His first enterprize was in the character of a volunteer in the little corps of Arnold, in the famous expedition to Canada ; which traversed the woods, or rather the wilderness, from Boston to Quebec. They arrived half famished, the latter end of November, in that northern region, without tents, provisions, horses, or artillery, in the face of a formidable fortress, and they themselves only four hundred strong! A storm however, in addition to contrary winds, delayed the passage of the river, and alone prevented this little host from assailing, and perhaps carrying, the town when they first came in sight, Being disappointed in this object, and having 1805-1806, Aa


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