Then said his little Soul, Peeping from her little hole, « I protest, little Man, you are stout, stout, stout, But, if 't is not uncivil, Pray tell me, what the devil Must our little, little speech be about, bout, bout, Must our little little speech be about?» The little Man look'd big, With the assistance of his wig, And he call'd his little Soul to order, order, order, Till she fear'd he 'd make her jog in To jail, like Thomas Croggan, And though oft, of an evening, perhaps he might prove, Like our brave Spanish Allies, « unable to move;» LORD WELLINGTON AND THE MINISTERS. (As she was n't duke or earl) to reward her, ward her, So gentle in peace Alcibiades smiled, ward her, As she was n't duke or earl, to reward her. The little Man then spoke, <«< Little Soul, it is no joke, For, as sure as JACKY FULLER loves a sup, sup, sup, I will tell the Prince and People What I think of Church and Steeple, And my little patent plan to prop them up, up, up, And my little patent plan to prop them up.»> Away then, cheek by jowl, Little Man and little soul 1813. While in battle he shone forth so terribly grand, That the emblem they graved on his seal was a child, With a thunderbolt placed in its innocent hand. Oh, WELLINGTON ! long as such Ministers wield To the Editor of the Morning Chronicle. SIR,-In order to explain the following fragment, it Went, and spoke their little speech to a tittle, tittle, is necessary to refer your readers to a late florid de tittle, And the world all declare That this priggish little pair Never yet in all their lives look'd so little, little, little, Never yet in all their lives look'd so little. scription of the Pavilion at Brighton, in the apartments of which, we are told, «FUM, The Chinese Bird of Royalty,» is a principal ornament. I am, Sir, yours, etc. MUM. REINFORCEMENTS FOR LORD WELLINGTON. suosque tibi commendat Troja penates, Hos cape fatorum comites.-VIRGIL. 1813. As recruits in these times are not easily got, not, We may thus make them useful to England at last. Nay, I do not see why the great REGENT himself Though through narrow defiles he 's not fitted to pass, Yet who could resist if he bore down en masse? FUM AND HUM, The two Birds of Royalty. ONE day the Chinese Bird of Royalty, Fum, In that Palace or China-shop (Brighton-which is it!) The floor of that grand China-warehouse at Brighton, And when turning, he saw Bishop L- Quoth the Bird, «yes-I know him-a Bonze, by his phiz And that jolly old idol he kneels to so low Can be none but our round-about godhead, fat Fo!» 1 The character given to the Spanish soldier, in Sir John Murray's memorable dispatch. In consequence of an old promise, that he should be allowed to wear his own hair, whenever he might be elevated to a bishoprick by his Royal Highness. Which the Bird, overhearing, flew high o'er his head, Which have spoil'd you, till hardly a drop, my old Of porpoise, pure English claret is left in your corpus; But a truce to digression.-These birds of a feather Thus talk'd, t' other night, on State matters together-Having conquer'd the prime one, that mill'd us all (The PRINCE just in bed, or about to depart for 't, His legs full of gout, and his arms full of HERTFORD); round, You kick'd him, old BEN, as he gasp'd on the ground! «I say, HUM,» says FUM-FUM, of course spoke Chi-Ay-just at the time to show spunk, if you'd got any But, bless nese, that's nothing-at Brighton one sees Foreign lingoes and bishops translated with ease «I say HUM,» how fares it with Royalty now? Is it up? is it prime? is it spooney--or how?» (The Bird had just taken a flash man's degree Kick'd him, and jaw'd him, and lagg'd1 him to Botany! Under B➖➖➖➖e, Y▬▬▬▬th, and young Master Insult the fallen foe that can harm him no more. «As for us in Pekin»---here a devil of a din From the bed-chamber came, where that long Mandarin, (Nota bene.-His Lordship and LIVERPOOL Come, Out, cowardly spooney!-again and again, TO LADY HOLLAND, On Napoleon's Legacy of a Snuff-Box. To her, whose pity watch'd, for ever nigh; A friendship all his kingdoms could not buy. EPISTLE FROM TOM CRIB TO BIG BEN, Abi, mio Ben!-METASTASIO.3 WHAT! Ben, my old hero, is this your renown! Your trinkets, wigs, thingumbobs, gold lace, and lo- Written soon after Bonaparte's transportation to St Helena. 2 Tom, I suppose, was assisted to this motto by Mr Jackson, who, it is well known, keeps the most learned company going. 3 Gin. No want has he of sword or dagger, Though Peers may laugh, and Papists swagger, a Whether 'midst Irish chairmen going, Or, through St Giles's alleys dim, 'Mid drunken Sheelabs, blasting, blowing, No matter 't is all one to him. 3 For instance I, one evening late, Upon a gay vacation sally, Singing the praise of Church and State, Got (God knows how) to Cranbourne Alley. When lo! an Irish Papist darted Across my path, gaunt, grim, and big- Scared at me even without my wig! 5 Oh! place me 'midst O'ROURKES, O'TOOLES, 6 Of Church and State I'll warble still, Though even DICK MARTIN's self should grumble; Sweet Church and State, like JACK and JILL, 7 So lovingly upon a hill Ah! ne'er like JACK and JILL to tumble! 1 Non eget Mauri jaculis neque arcu, Nec venenatis gravida sagittis Fusce, pharetra. Sive per Syrteis iter æstuosas, Sive facturus per inhospitalem Caucasum, vel quæ loca fabulosus Lambit Hydaspes. HORACE, ODE 1, LIB. 111. A FRAGMENT. Odi profanum vulgus et arceo. 1815. I HATE thee, oh Mob! as my lady hates delf, And, like GODWIN, write books for young masters and misses. Oh! it is not high rank that can make the heart merry, Even monarchs themselves are not free from mishap; Though the Lords of Westphalia must quake before Jerry, Poor Jerry himself has to quake before Nap. HORACE, ODE xxxvII, LIB. 1. A FRAGMENT. Translated by a Treasury Clerk, while waiting Dinner for the Right Hon. George Rose. Persicos odi, puer, apparatus : Displicent nexæ philyra coronæ, Mitte sectari Ross quo locorum Sera moretur. The noble translator had, at first, laid the scene of these imagined Boy, tell the Cook that I hate all nick-nackeries, dangers of his man of conscience among the papists of Spain, and | Fricasces, vol-au-vents, puffs, and gim-crackeries, had translated the words quæ loca fabulosus lambit Hydaspes. thus -- The fabling Spaniard licks the French in bat, recollecting | Six by the llorse-Guards !-old Georgy is late that it is our interest just now to be respectful to Spanish catholics | fat come-lay the table-cloth-zounds ! do not wait, (though there is certainly no earthly reason for our being even com- Nor stop to inquire, while the dinner is staying, monly civil to Irish ones), be altered the passage as it stands at At which of his places Old ROSE is delaying!' present. 3 Namque me sylva lupus in Sabina, I cannot help calling the reader's attention to the peculiar ingenuity with which these lines are paraphrase. Not to mention the happy conversion of the wolf into a papist (seeing that Romulus was suckled by a wolf, that Rome was founded by Romulus, and that the Pope has always reigned at Rome), there is something particularly neat in supposing witra terminums to mean vacation time, and then the modest co sciousness with which the noble and learned translator bas avoided touching upon the words curis expeditus, (or, as it has been otherwise read, causis expeditus,) and the felicitous idea of his being inermis when without his wig, are altogether the most delectable specimens of paraphrase in our lan guage. 4 Quale portentum neque militaris Daunia in latis alit esculetis, Nec Juba tellus generat, leonum Arida nutrix. Pone me pigris ubi nulla campis Arbor æstiva recreatur aura: . The literal closeness of the version bere cannot but be admired. The translator has added a long, erudite, and flowery note upon Roses, of which I can merely give a specimen at present. In the first place, be ransacks the Rosarium Politicum of the Persian poet Sadi, with the hope of finding some Political Roses, to match the gentleman in the text-but in vain: he then tells us, that Cicero accused Verres of reposing upon a cushion Melitensi rosa fartum, which, from the odd mixture of words, he supposes to be a kind of Irish Bed of Roses, like Lord Castlereagh's. The learned clerk next favours us with some remarks upon a well-known punning epitaph on fair Rosamond, and expresses a most loyal bope that, if Rosa manda mean Rose with cleau hands, it may be found applicable to the Right Honourable Rose in question. He then dwells at some length upon the = Rosa aurea which, though descriptive, in one sense, of the old Treasury Statesman, yet, as being consecrated and worn by the Pope, must, of course, not be brought into the same atmosphere with him. Lastly, in reference to the words old Rose, be winds up with the pathetic lamentation of the poet, consenuisse Rosas. The whole note, indeed, shows a knowledge of Roses that is ? There cannot be imagined a more happy illustration of the in- quite edifying. Dialogue between a Dowager and her Maid on the I WANT the Court-Guide,» said my Lady, « to look « We 've lost the Court-Guide, Ma'am, but here's the Red Book, Where you'll find, I dare say, Seymour PLACES in plenty!» The words addressed by Lord Herbert of Cherbury, to the beautiful nun at Murano. See his Life. This is a bon mot, attributed, I know not how truly, to the PAINCESS OF WALES. I have merely versified it. EPIGRAM. FROM THE FRENCH. << I NEVER give a kiss,» says Prue, «To naughty man, for I abbor it.» She will not give a kiss 't is true She'll take one, though, and thank you for it. ON A SQUINTING POETESS. To no one Muse does she her glance confine, But has an eye, at once, to all the Nine! THE TORCH OF LIBERTY. I SAW it all in Fancy's glass- Pass'd the bright torch triumphant on. I saw the expectant nations stand And, oh! their joy, as it came near, «That torch they pass is Liberty!» And each, as she received the flame, From ALBION first, whose ancient shrine And lit a flame like ALBION's-steady. The splendid gift then GALLIA took, And, like a wild Bacchante, raising The brand aloft, its sparkles shook, As she would set the world a-blazing. And, when she fired her altar, high Next, SPAIN so new was light to her- 'T was quench'd, and all again was dark. Yet no-not quench'd-a treasure worth |