As oft on Gadshill we have ta'en our stand,
When 'twas so dark you could not see your hand,
Some true bred Falstaff we may hope to start,
Who, when well bolster'd, well will play his part.

The scenes to vary, we shall try in time
To treat you with a little Pantomime;
Here light and easy Columbine's are found,
And well tried Harlequins with us abound.

From durance vile our precious selves to keep,
We've often had recourse to th' flying leap;
To a black face have sometimes ow'd escape,
And Hounslow Heath has prov'd the worth of crape.

But how, you ask, can we e'er hope to soar
Above these scenes, and rise to tragic lore?
Too oft, alas! we forc'd th' unwilling tear,
And petrified the heart with real fear.

Macbeth a harvest of applause will reap,
For some of us, I fear, have murder'd sleep;
His Lady, too, with grace, will sleep and talk,
Our females have been us'd at night to walk.

Sometimes, indeed, so various is our art,
An actor may improve and mend his part:
"Give me a horse," bawls Richard, like a drone,
We'll find a man would help-himself to one.

Р

PROLOGUE SPOKEN BY THE CELEBRATED GEORGE

BARRINGTON, AT OPENING THE THEATRE AT BOTANY BAY.

i

FROM distant climes, o'er far spread seas we come,
But not with much eclat or beat of drum,
Tho' patriots all; for, be it understood,
We left our country for our country's good.

In private views at end, our generous zeal,
That urg'd our travels, was our country's weal;
And none will doubt but that our emigration
Has prov'd most useful to the British nation.

But you inquire, what could our breasts inflame
With this new passion for theatric fame?
What, in the practice of our former days,
Could shape our talents to exhibit plays?

Your patience, Sirs; some observations made,
You'll grant us equal to the scenic trade.
He who to midnight ladders is no stranger,
You'll own must prove an admirable Ranger.

To find Macheath we have not far to roam;
And sure to Filch I shall be quite at home.
Unrivall❜d there, none will dispute my claim
To sure pre-eminence in exalted fame.

As oft on Gadshill we have ta'en our stand,
When 'twas so dark you could not see your hand,
Some true bred Falstaff we may hope to start,
Who, when well bolster'd, well will play his part.

The scenes to vary, we shall try in time
To treat you with a little Pantomime;
Here light and easy Columbine's are found,
And well tried Harlequins with us abound.

From durance vile our precious selves to keep,
We've often had recourse to th' flying leap;
To a black face have sometimes ow'd escape,
And Hounslow Heath has prov'd the worth of crape.

But how, you ask, can we e'er hope to soar
Above these scenes, and rise to tragic lore?
Too oft, alas! we forc'd th' unwilling tear,
And petrified the heart with real fear.

Macbeth a harvest of applause will reap,
For some of us, I fear, have murder'd sleep;
His Lady, too, with grace, will sleep and talk,
Our females have been us'd at night to walk.

Sometimes, indeed, so various is our art,
An actor may improve and mend his part:
"Give me a horse," bawls Richard, like a drone,
We'll find a man would help-himself to one.

P

Grant us your favour, put us to the test,
To gain your smiles we'll always do our best:
And, without dread of future Turnkey Lockets,
Thus, in an honest way, still pick your pockets.

FATE OF NAPOLEON AND MURAT. THE Chief has fallen, but not by you, Vanquishers of Waterloo !

When the soldier citizen

Swayed not o'er his fellow men

Save in deeds that led them on

Where glory smiled on Freedom's son-
Who, of all the despots banded,

With that youthful chief competed?
Who could boast o'er France defeated,

Till lone Tyranny commanded?
Till, goaded by ambition's sting,
The Hero sunk into the King?
Then he fell ;-So perish all
Who would men by man enthral !

And thou too of the snow-white plume!
Whose realm refused thee ev'n a tomb ;*
Better hadst thou still been leading
France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding,
Than sold thyself to death and shame
For a meanly royal name;

* Murat's remains are said to have been torn from the grave and burnt.

Such as he of Naples wears,

Who thy blood-bought title bears.
Little didst thou deem, when dashing
On thy war-horse through the ranks,
Like a stream which burst its banks,
While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing,
Shone and shivered fast around thee-
Of the fate at last which found thee:
Was that haughty plume laid low
By a slave's dishonest blow?

Once-as the Moon sways o'er the tide,
It rolled in air, the warrior's guide;
Through the smoke-created night
Of the black and sulphurous fight,
The soldier rais'd his seeking eye
To catch that crest's ascendancy,-
And, as it onward rolling rose,
So moved his heart upon our foes.
There, where death's brief pang was quickest,
And the battle's wreck lay thickest,
Strew'd beneath the advancing banner

Of the eagle's burning crest—
(There with thunder-clouds to fan her,
Who could then her wing arrest—
Victory beaming from her breast?)
While the broken line enlarging
Fell, or fled along the plain;
There be sure was MURAT charging!
There he ne'er shall charge again!

BYRON.