DEAR SIR,

Ancient National Melodies.

No. I.

Chantington, Nov. 25, 1821.

THERE is nothing more true than what is said in a certain good old song, viz. that

Our ancient English melodies
Are banish'd out of doors;

Our Lords and Ladies run to hear
Signoras and Signors.

It is no less true, that

These strains I hate,

Like a pig in a gate.

For which reason, I have resolved to go over Ritson's Collection, and Tom Durfey's Pills to purge Melancholy, selecting from these too much neglected works such genuine old National airs as may seem most worthy of revival, and soliciting from your all-powerful imprimatur, the most effectual patronage which they can need, or I myself desire. Occasionally it may be proper to alter the words a little, so as to suit the occasions and sentiments of the day; and thus it is that I choose to begin my series with the following rifacciamento of that excellent chaunt which stands 43d in the collection of Ritson's Miscel laneous Songs. See Vol. II. p. 156.

I am, Sir, your most obedient servant,

THOMAS PIPES.

TO C. NORTH, ESQ.

Ad libitum.

SONG I.

Comparisons are Ovious. A Chaunt.
To the Tune of " The Old Courtier and the New.

WITH an old song that is quite gone out of date, Of an old Ci - ti - zen of

London town who dwelt by Aldgate, Who kept close to his shop as became

his estate, And with plays and with po-ems sel-dom troubled his pate,

Like an old Cockney of King Lud's, [and King Lud's old Cockney.]

With an old song that is quite gone out of date,

Of an old Citizen of London town who dwelt by Aldgate,
Who kept close to his shop as became his estate,

And with plays and with poems seldom troubled his pate,

Like an old Cockney of King Lud's,
Cand King Lud's old Cockney.]

With a plain good woman, neither blue-stocking nor snarler,
Who had no objection to draw a cup from the barrel, or
Do any little turn about her neat back-parlour,

And thought it a long journey to Richmond-hill or Marlow,
Like an old Cockney, &c.

With a warm house, into which came neither belles nor beaux,

But worthy men of substance, in comfortable trunk-hose,

Who considered the Pope, the Pretender, and Monsieur as their foes, But bore good will and amity to all mankind but those,

Like an old Cockney, &c.

With an old cupboard full of decent old books,

A great oak-boarded BIBLE, you might know it by its looks,

With an old Hollinshed fastened with copper hooks,

And Jane Shore, and the Children of the Wood, and such old ditties in

the nooks,

Like an old Cockney, &c.

With an old fashion, when Sunday was come,

To walk to church with his prayer-book between his finger and his thumb,
But when service was over he had good roast beef and plum-
Pudding,-whereof every merry apprentice had some,

Like an old Cockney, &c.

With a good fashion, after dinner was done,

To drink a glass of Arrack-punch made by his wife or his son,
Whereof each filled a bumper that did almost overrun,

And then drunk to the King's health-jollily every one,

Like an old Cockney, &c.

But, in different times, more's the pity, different manners we find,This old man's descendant is to foppish courses inclined,

And, with newspapers and tavern-speeches, so corrupted is his mind,
That, not to speak the thing harshly, he is fit to be joined

With the new Cockneys of King Leigh's,
Cand King Leigh's new Cockneys.]

Like a green Cockney, who dwells by Hampstead in a Box,
Whence he looks down on Pope, and Dryden, William Pitt, and Charles
Fox,

And writes Essays, which he swears are better than Addison's or Locke's,
And filthy obscene sonnets withal, for which he should be set in the stocks,
Like a new Cockney of King Leigh's,
Cand King Leigh's new Cockney.]

Who, amidst a vile raffish company, is always giving of himself airs,
Thrumming upon a crazy spinnet, with fingers like a bear's;

Laughing at all decent people who go to church and say their prayers,
But don't consort with kept-madams, washer-women, and stage-players,
Like a new Cockney, &c.

Who thinketh himself a Homer, and placeth above Aristotle

A stuck painter, whose nose ten dozen swandrops do mottle;
Who would think it no harm the whole bench of Bishops to throttle;
And drinks green gooseberry wash out of a Champagne bottle,

Like a new Cockney, &c.

Who hangs his parlour with smutty prints, and makes a mighty fuss too,
About a painted book-case topp'd with his own down-looking busto,
And jabbers all day long about Brio and Gusto,

And rails against Lord Wellington, Crib, Gas, and Little Puss too,
Like a new Cockney, &c.

Whose mental vision squints so Morgan-like, so abominably oblique,
That he dares to publish translations from Italian and Greek,
Though of these he knows nothing; and even in English is sorely to seek,
Rhyming rhymes which all abhor, except little Jeffrey's little critique.
Like a new Cockney, &c.

Now may Hazlitt, and Hunt, and Jeffrey, and M'Intosh, and Brougham,
Hold their tongues from henceforth ever, and their proper stations resume;
For, not one of them will write a history or poem till the crack of doom,
That any gentleman or lady would not hate to see in their room,

Like a new Cockney, &c.

If Hazlitt writes any more Stable-Talk he shall certainly be feruled— If Hunt reaches forth his sceptre, his crown shall be peril'd

If Jeffrey ever struts again, the Black Dwarf shall strut his heraldAnd if Sir Jemmy talks of Histories, I'll dedicate my History of Gerald To spotless Brougham and princely Leigh,

And King Leigh's new Cockneys.

SONG II.

Cobbett's Complaint. A Birge.

To the Tune of "O Hone, O Hone.”

Now let no eyes be dry, O Hone, O Hone! Now let all lament and cry,

O Hone, O Hone! For Caroline is dead, And with her our

hopes are fled, For by her we all were fed, O Hone, O Hone!

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM, IN BLANK VERSE, BY BLAIZE FITZTRAVESTY,

ESQ.

Droæmium,

Dedicatory, Panegyrical, and Discursive,

TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH, ESQ. formerly the Veiled Conductor, but now the bare-faced and much-stared-at Editor of Blackwood's Magazine, Health, Wealth, and Good Spirits;

CHRISTOPHER, Cock of the North, Prince of Periodicals, and Monarch of * Magazinists, I dedicate to you the spoils of my first incursion into the territories of verse; and, at the same time, take the opportunity, too often let slip by pusillanimous dedicators, of praising you point-blank to your face. Man of monthly appearance in print, you have so changed the frame of the features of the universal literary countenance, and have put so much more meaning and expression into it, that the world of letters is not at all what it was indeed it is no longer a republic, it is become an absolute monarchy, and you are the Despot of it. You have established a standard measure for the bulk of works; and authors are everywhere bringing in their Winchester bushels, to have them gauged and conformed to your decree; but, zooks, you will allow few or none of them to put forth a bushel of their stuff at a time-condensation is the VOL. X.

word with you-and you insist on their winnowing away their husks, and so compressing into a quart-pottle what looked a big and bulky heap, and fit to fill a gallon. You will banish, I believe, the publication of separate treatises from the land. By the authority of your dictatorship, put in force against the stiff-necked, or where that is uncalled for, through the fascination of your example with the milder-natured, there is an end put at last to the infliction of all longwinded tractates upon us. All discussions henceforth are, I foresee, to come within the compass of a few hours' reading; and, indeed, most of the viri clariss. are now convinced that a Magazine (or, more correctly, THE MAGAZINE) is your only commodious vehicle for delivering and ensuring the perusal of their lucubrations de quovis omnium scibilium-from Cookery up to the Law of Contingent Remainders, Isoperimetrical Problems, or the world

4 A