SONG I.

SAINT PATRICK.

A FIG for St Den-nis of France, He's a trumpery fellow to

brag on; A fig for St George and his lance, Which spitted a

(2) The tune of this ("The Groves of the Pool") is indigenous of the South of Ireland. There is a capital song to this tune, by R. Millikin of Cork, beginning with "Now the war, dearest Nancy, is ended, and peace is come over from France." Millikin is the author of the Groves of Blarney, which Mathews sings with so much effect. The Standard-Bearer has supplied us with some lines on that unknown poet. See No. LVII. p. 382.

There is a sort of sketch of his life in Ryan's Worthies of Ireland. We should gladly make room for a fuller account, with specimens of his poetry. If it is good—as we are sure it must-its locality will be of little consequence. C. N.

heathenish dragon: And the saints of the Welshman and Scot Are

a

pi-ti-ful couple of pipers, Both of whom may just travel to pot, If com

pared with the pa-tron of swipers, St Patrick of Ireland, my dear.

1.

A fig for St Dennis of France,

He's a trumpery fellow to brag on;
A fig for St George and his lance,
Which spitted a heathenish dragon;
And the Saints of the Welshman or Scot
Are a couple of pitiful pipers,
Both of whom may just travel to pot,
Compared with that patron of swipers,
Patrick of Ireland, my dear!

2.

He came to the Emerald Isle

On a lump of a paving-stone mounted;
The steam-boat he beat by a mile,

Which mighty good sailing was counted;
Says he, "The salt water, I think,
Has made me most bloodily thirsty,

So bring me a flagon of drink,

To keep down the mulligrubs, burst ye,
Of drink that is fit for a saint."

3.

He preach'd then with wonderful force,
The ignorant natives a-teaching;

With a pint he wash'd down his discourse,
"For," says he, "I detest your dry preaching."

The people, with wonderment struck,

At a pastor so pious and civil,

Exclaimed, "We're for you, my old buck,

And we pitch our blind gods to the devil,
Who dwells in hot water below."

4.

This ended, our worshipful spoon
Went to visit an elegant fellow,
Whose practice each cool afternoon
Was to get most delightfully mellow.
That day, with a black jack of beer,

It chanced he was treating a party;
Says the saint," This good day, do you hear,
I drank nothing to speak of, my hearty,
So give me a pull at the pot.

sider it, the more I am brought to think there is no knowing what R. has left out, so short has he been, and so much has he neglected. He couldn't have had his eyes about him, one would imagine, and yet he is a prying sort of a chap too, and likes to see what's going forward, and to know the rights of things. Nevertheless, as he told me, if I chose to see the verses he gave me, in print, that I might send them to Mr Christopher North, care of Mr Blackwood, I here pack them off. (4) I can tell you this, though, that you had best print them exactly as they are set down for you, or I shall have a fine hollabaloo, for he is mighty precise, and will perhaps accuse me of having a finger in the pie, as I have already recommended a little addition, and got no good by it. So don't alter them, though you'll most likely grieve, like me, at their incompleteness; but let him have his way this once, he maybe will come round in time, and do things like other folks. I don't know whether you have a wife or no for me to send my respects

to, so if you have, she mustn't be angry. Indeed, I don't overmuch know who you yourself be, but I suppose you're a 'cute printer of ballads, and such like. (5) Only it seems to be a good way off to send to get a little job of this kind done. However, that's no business of mine. So no more at present from your humble servant to command,

JACOB ASHPOLE, Hopgrower.

Farnham, Surrey, 19th October, 1821.

P. S. Don't mind the scratchy appearance of this letter. I was forced to blot out here and there; for, being mostly used to write to my customers, I can't at once forget I have nothing in this to do with an invoice, or bill of parcels. You don't want a pocket or two of prime last year's growth, do ye? I can promise you they'd make precious stingo, with some of your Lowlant malt. I could serve you cheap if you did; for though there is a baddish crop to-year, we've got so much on hand, that prices are moderate.

THE HOP GROUND; IN FOUR SONNETS.

Spring.

THIS balmy air, and yonder brimming cloud,
Which darkening as the sun-light grows intense,
Sets off its rainbow's bland magnificence,

Resuscitate within its silent shroud

The vegetative power, no longer bow'd

Beneath chill winter's sway. A stirring sense,
An irrepressible intelligence

Of gladsome times advancing, thaws the blood
Of nature's leafy tribes. Among their peers

The sprouting hop-plants lift their purple heads,
And warn the hinds, deep in the soil beneath

To drive the poles ;-this wither'd forest spreads,
Till all the plot, as if with ported spears,
Stands bristling, waiting each its verdant wreath.

Summer.

BEAUTIFUL plant, sample of natural grace!

Whose bines, untrained, garland with gay festoon
The overbrowing hedge; or by the boor

Of dipping branch uplifted, fair repays

(4)" And hope they will prove fine, and request your future orders,"-erased with the pen.

(5) I am not in the actual employ of Mr North, (who indeed is not a printer,) although 1 frequently attend him for copy, or with proofs; nor is my name "Tipsy Thammus," as he in joke reported it, (vol. V, p. 328,) reversing the order of the two names, and spelling them designedly amiss. THOMAS TIBBSON.

I.

I WISH to St Patrick we had a new war,

I'd not care who 'twas with, no, nor what it was for:
With the French or the Yankees or better again,
With the yellow Mulattoes of Lisbon or Spain!

2.

My heart is half broke when I think of the fun
We had before Boney, poor fellow, was done;
Oh! 'twas I who was sore when I heard he was dead,
For I thought on the days when he got me good bread.

3.

When he, who, God rest him! was never afraid,
Sir Thomas, commanded the FIGHTING BRIGADE;
And the Rangers of Connaught-to see them was life-
Made game of the Frenchmen, and† gave 'em the knife.

4.

When abroad and at home we had sport and content-
Who cared then a damn for tythe, taxes, or rent?
When each dashing fine fellow, who wish'd to enlist,
Might be off to the wars with his gun in his fist.

5.

Now the landlord is bother'd, and tenant bereft-
The soldier's discharged,-and the sailor adrift-
Half-pays to our captains poor living afford,

And the Duke is no more than a Government Lord!

6.

And our active light-bobs, and our bold grenadiers,
Must dirty their fingers with plough, loom, or sheers;
Or if just out of fun, we should venture a snap

At no more than a proctor, we're thrown into trap.

7.

So bad luck to the minute that brought us the peace,
For it almost has ground the nose out of our face;
And I wish to St Patrick we had a new war,

Och! no matter with whom, no, nor what it was for!

With uproarious jollity.

SONG III.
RAFFERTY'S Advice.
AIR,-Limerick Glove.

WHEN you go courting a neat or a dainty lass, Don't you be sighing, or

ready to faint, a-las! Little she'd care for such pluckless philandering,

Sir T. Picton, who commanded the 4th division in the Peninsular War. It was chiefly composed of Irishmen, and was called the "fighting division," from its constant activity in engaging. The Connaught Rangers, (the 88th,) was one regiment of this most dashing brigade; and many a saying of Sir T's. is treasured up by them, for he was a great favourite from his gallant habits.

+ A common phrase among the Irish soldiery for charging with the bayonet.

And to Old Nick she would send you a-wandering. But, you thief, you

rogue, you rapperee, Arrah, have at her like Paddy O'Raf-fer-ty.

1.

When you go courting a neat or a dainty lass,
Don't you be sighing or ready to faint, alas!
Little she'd care for such pluckless philandering,
And to Old Nick she would send you a wandering.

But you thief, you rogue, you rapparee!
Arrah, have at her like Paddy O'Rafferty.

2.

Tip her the wink, and take hold of the fist of her;
Kiss her before she'd have time to say Christopher ;*
She may cry out, "You're an impudent fellow, sir!"
But her eye will unsay what her tongue it may tell you, sir.
Oh you thief, you rogue, you rapparee,
You're a devil of a fellow, Paddy O'Rafferty.

3.

Give her another, or rather a score of 'em,
Still you will find her ready for more of 'em ;
Press her, caress her, my dear, like a stylish man,
For that is the way to go court like an Irishman.
Oh you, &c.

4.

Pitch to the devil sighings and "well-a-days,"
Oglings and singing of piperly melodies;

When in your arms you fairly have got her, sir,
Her heart it will melt like a lump of fresh butter, sir!
Oh you, &c.

5.

Oh the dear creatures-sure I am kill'd with 'em!
My heart, was it big as the sea, would be fill'd with 'em ;
Far have I truff'd it, and surely where'er I went,

'Twas with the girls I had fun and merriment.

fair, For the Donovans, all in their glory, Most certainly mean to be

No allusion here to C. N. Esq.