Melody the second is pathetic, being the Lamentation of a Connaught Ranger, discharged. I had eleven cousins in that regiment. I may as well give it as my opinion, that the only cure for our present difficulties, is to go to war without delay; and I venture to say, if an aggregate meeting of the seven millions of us could be called any where, a war would be voted nem. con. I don't much care with whom, that being an afterthought, but I certainly would prefer having a shaking of those ugly-looking garlic-eaters, the Spaniards, who are now so impudent as to imagine they could have fought the French without us. I heard one Pedro Apodaca say as much, and I just knocked him down, to shew him I did not agree with him in opinion. I would engage, that 200,000 men would be raised in a day in this country, and if we would not batter the Dons I leave it to the reader. The third is amatory. Compare this with the best of Tom Moore's ditties. But to be sure it is absurd to think of a man of his inches talking of making love to half the girls of the country, as he does in Little's poems. The fourth is warlike-something in the manner of Sir Walter Scott's Gatherings. It relates to a feud in Kerry. (2) The fifth is convivial, and was extempore. I did not write it with the other four, but actually chaunted it on the spur of the occasion this morning, at the time noted. It is to the famous tune of Lillebullero-my uncle Toby's favourite; and the tune, as you may see, by Burnet, with which Lord Wharton whistled King James, of the unsavoury surname, out of three kingdoms. It is among us a party air, and called the Protestant Boys; but honest men of all parties must approve of my words. They come home to every man's feelings. The last is sentimental. I wrote it merely to prove I could write fine if I liked; but it cost me a lot of trouble. I actually had to go to the Commer cial Buildings, and swallow seven cups of the most sloppish Bohea I could get, and eat a quartern loaf cut into thin slices before I was in a fit mood to write such stuff. If I were to continue that diet, I should be the first of your pretty song writers in the empire; but it would be the death of me in a week. I am not quite recovered from that breakfast yet-and I do not wonder at the unfortunate figure the poor Cockneys cut who are everlastingly suffering under the deleterious effects of tea-drinking. I have scribbled to the end of my paper, so must conclude. Believe me to be, my dear North, Your's truly, 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; 2. He came to the Emerald Isle On a lump of a paving-stone mounted; Which mighty good sailing was counted; So bring me a flagon of drink, To keep down the mulligrubs, burst ye, 3. He preach'd then with wonderful force, With a pint he wash'd down his discourse, 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, 4. This ended, our worshipful spoon It chanced he was treating a party; 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, Resuscitate within its silent shroud The vegetative power, no longer bow'd Beneath chill winter's sway. A stirring sense, Of gladsome times advancing, thaws the blood The sprouting hop-plants lift their purple heads, To drive the poles ;-this wither'd forest spreads, Summer. BEAUTIFUL plant, sample of natural grace! Whose bines, untrained, garland with gay festoon 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: 2. My heart is half broke when I think of the fun 3. When he, who, God rest him! was never afraid, 4. When abroad and at home we had sport and content- 5. Now the landlord is bother'd, and tenant bereft- And the Duke is no more than a Government Lord! 6. And our active light-bobs, and our bold grenadiers, At no more than a proctor, we're thrown into trap. 7. So bad luck to the minute that brought us the peace, Och! no matter with whom, no, nor what it was for! With uproarious jollity. SONG III. 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, But you thief, you rogue, you rapparee! 2. Tip her the wink, and take hold of the fist of her; 3. Give her another, or rather a score of 'em, 4. Pitch to the devil sighings and "well-a-days," When in your arms you fairly have got her, sir, 5. Oh the dear creatures-sure I am kill'd with 'em! '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. |