Wherefore on run I, afresh they fall, and show
Themselves more active than before, as though
They had some wager laid, and did contend
Who should abuse me furthest at arms-end:
One I remember with a grizled beard,
And better grown than any of the herd," &c.
"This Ironsides takes hold, and suddenly
Hurls me, by judgment of the standers by,
Some twelve foot by the square; takes me again,
Out-throws half a bar; and thus we twain
At this hot exercise an hour had spent,
He the fierce agent, I the instrument:
My man began to rage, but I cry'd, Peace,
When he is dry or hungry, he will cease;

Peace for the Lord's sake, Nicholas, lest they take us,
And use as worse than Hercules did Cacus.'

And now I breathe, my lord, and have the time
To tell the causes, and confess the crime;
I was in black- -a scholar straight they guess'd:
Indeed I colour'd for it; at the least,

I spake them fair, desired to see the Hall,
And gave 'em reasons for it, this was all:
By which I learn, it is a main offence,

So near the Clerk o' the Check to utter sense," &c.

"Much more good service was committed yet,
Which I in such a tumult must forget;
But shall I smother that prodigious fit,
Which past in clear invention and pure wit?
As thus, a nimble knave, though somewhat fat,
Strikes on my head, and fairly steals my hat.
Another breaks a jest, yet 'twas not much,
Although the clamour and applause were such,
As when Sir Archy, or Garrat, doth provoke 'em.
And with wide laughter and a cheat-loaf choak 'em,
What was the jest, d'ye ask? I dare repeat it,
And put it home before ye shall entreat it ;
He call'd me Bloxford-man; confess I must,
'Twas bitter; and it grieved me in a thrust,
That most ingrateful word Bloxford to hear
From him whose breath yet stunk of Oxford beer.
But let it pass, for I have now pass'd through
Their halberds, (and worse weapons,) their teeth, too,
And of a worthy officer was invited

To dine, who all their rudness hath requited," &c.

"But as it stands, the persons and the cause
Consider'd all, my manners and their laws,
'Tis no affliction to me, for even thus
St Paul hath fought with beasts at Ephesus,
And I at Windsor; let this comfort then
Rest with all able and deserving men :

He that will please the guard, and not provoke
Court-wits, must sell his learning, buy a cloak:

For at all feasts and masques the doom hath been,
A man thrust forth, and a gay cloak let in.""*

The author of "The Specimens of British Poets," has summarily given the merits of this author, saying merely, "that he has left some good strokes of humour against the Puritans." In our opinion, the only bad things he has left, are those little ballads against the Puritans; the wittiest of his poems, his Journey to France, quoted by that author of the Specimen, is a satire on the

Roman Catholics, which, as it has appeared there, we need not give. The " Iter Boreale" abounds in humour. Inns, frosts, and hostess, have always been fruitful sources of merriment to travelling wits.

"To the inn we came, where our best cheer
Was that his Grace of York had lodged there.
He was objected to us when we call,

Or dislike aught, my lord's grace answers all;
He was contented with this bed, this diet,
This keeps our discontented stomachs quiet," &c.

"The shot was easy, and what concerns us more,
The way was so, mine host did ride before;
Mine host was full of ale and history;

And on the morrow, when he brought us nigh
Where the two* Roses join'd, you would suppose,
Chaucer ne'er writ the Romant of the Rose.

Hear him- See ye yond' woods? there Richard lay
With his whole army; look the other way,
And lo, where Richmond, in a bed of gorse,
Incamp'd himself o'er night with all his force-
Upon this hill they met." Why, he could tell

The inch where Richmond stood, where Richard fell;
Besides, what of his knowledge he could say,
He had authentic notice from the play;

Which I might guess by's mustering up the ghosts,
And policies, not incident to hosts;

But chiefly by that one perspicuous thing
When he mistook a player for a king;

For when he would have said, King Richard died,
And call'd a horse, a horse, he Burbage cried.
Howe'er, his talk, his company pleas'd well,
His mare went truer than his chronicle;

And even for conscience-sake, unspurr'd, unbeaten,
Brought us six miles, and turn'd tail to Nun-Eaton."

He proceeds to Warwick, apropos to which reverend place, we may make mention of sundry complaints received by us from thence, of some cockneys, who visited it about two months ago in a one-horse chay, and spoiled the trees in the greenery, by engraving on them Arry and Mariar, and plucking laurels, for what end we dare not conjecture. But to our Bishop.

"No other hindrance now, but we may pass
Clear to our Inn ;-Oh! there an hostess was,
To whom the castle and the dun cow are
Sights after dinner, she is morning ware;
Her whole behavionr borrow'd was and mixt,
Half-fool, half-puppet, and her pace betwixt
Measure and jigge; her court'sie was an honour,
Her gait as if her neighbours had out-gone her.
She was barr'd up in whalebone, that did leese
None of the whales' length, for they reach'd her knees ;
Off with her head, and then she hath a middle,
As her waste stands just like the new-found fiddle,
The favourite Theorbo, truth to tell ye,
Whose neck and throat are deeper than the belly.
Have you seen monkeys chain'd about the loins,
Or pottle-pots with rings? just so she joins
Herself together; a dressing she doth love,
In a small print below, and text above." &c.

Bosworth Field.

We shall quote but one more poem of the witty Bishop's; and this we recommend to the serious attention of that learned body, The Provost and Fellows of Trinity College, Dublin, cock-a-hoop, as they must be, from the Royal visit. Indeed we know how much the slightest hint promulgated in these pages would influence them; and we feel particularly flattered by Dr Kyle's following our advice in discountenancing The Historical Society. The important piece we recommend, is entitled "A certain Poem, as it was presented in Latin by divines and others, before his Majesty in Cambridge, by way of interlude, styled Liber Novus de Adventu Regis ad Cantabrigiam, faithfully done into English, with some liberal additions."

"It is not yet a fortnight since
Lutetia entertain'd our prince,
And vented hath a studied toy,
As long as was the siege of Troy,

And spent herself for full five days,
In speeches, exercise, and plays.
To trim the town, great care before
Was ta'en by the Lord Vice-Chancellour;
Both morn and even he clean'd the way;
The streets he gravell'd thrice a-day:

One strike of March dust for to see,
No proverb would give more than he.
Their colleges were new be-painted,-
Their founders eke were new be-sainted;
Nothing escaped, nor post, nor door,
, Nor gate, nor rail, nor bawd, nor

You could not know (O strange mis-
hap!)

Whether you saw the town or map.
But the pure House of Emanuel
Would not be like proud Jesabel,
Nor shew herself before the King
An hypocrite or painted thing;

But that the ways might all prove fair,
Conceived a tedious mile of prayer.
Upon the look'd-for seventh of March,
Out went the townsmen all in starch,
Both band and beard, into the field,
Where one a speech could hardly wield;

For needs he would begin his style,
The King being from him half a mile.

They gave the King a piece of plate,
Which they hoped never came too late;
But cry'd, Oh! look not in, Great King,
For there is in it just nothing;

And so preferr❜d with tune and gait,
A speech as empty as their plate.
Now as the King came near the town,
Each one ran crying up and down,
Alas, poor Oxford! thou'rt undone,
For now the King's past Trompington,
And rides upon his braw gray dapple,
Seeing the top of King's College
Chappel.

Next rode his lordship on a nag,
Whose coat was blue, whose ruff was shag,
And then began his reverence
To speak most eloquent nonsense:

See how, (quoth he,) most mighty
Prince,

ry joy my horse doth wince.

What cries the town? what we? (said he,)
What cries the University?
What cry the boys? what, every thing?
Behold, behold, yond' comes the King!
And every period he bedecks
With Een et Ecce venit Rex.
Oft have I warn'd (quoth he) our dirt,
That no silk stockings should be hurt;
But we in vain strive to be fine,
Unless your Grace's sun doth shine,

And with the beams of your bright eye,
You will be pleased our streets to dry.
Now come we to the wonderment
Of Christendom, and eke of Kent,
The Trinity, which to surpass,
Doth deck her spokesman by a glass,

Who, clad in gay and silken weeds,
Thus opes his mouth, hark, how he
speeds!

I wonder what your Grace doth here,
Who have expected been twelve year,
And this your son, fair Carolus,
Who is so Jacobissimus:

Here's none, of all, your Grace refuses,
You are most welcome to the Muses.
Although we have no bells to jangle,
Yet we can show a fair quadrangle,
Which, though it ne'er was graced with
King,

Yet sure it was a goodly thing;

My warning's short, no more I'll say,
Soon you shall see a gallant play.
But nothing was so much admired
As were their plays so well attired;
Nothing did win more praise of mine,
Than did their acting most divine;

So did they drink their healths di-
vinely,

So did they dance and skip so finely.
Their plays had sundry grave wise factors,
A perfect diocess of actors

Upon the stage; for I am sure that
There were both bishop, pastor, curate;

Nor was their labour light or small,
The charge of some was pastoral.
Our plays were certainly much worse,
For they had a brave hobby-horse,
Which did present unto his grace,
A wond'rous witty ambling pace.

But we were chiefly spoil'd by that
Which was six hours of, God knows
what.

To this Cantab felicitation we subjoin two effusions from Limerick and Cork, the harbingers of a joyous series, expressive of the loyal commotion which agitates the Green Isle.

ODE ON THE KING'S LANDING IN IRELAND,

TWELFTH AUGUST, MDCCCXXI.

By John Howley, Esq. of Garry Owen.

Ring ye the bells, ye young men of the town,
And leave your wonted labours for this day;
This day is holy; do you write it down,
That ye for ever it remember may.

SPENSER. Epithalamion.

PROCEMIUM.

1.

The poet flab As I was sitting on the Shannon side,
bergasted by
ane strange
Lull'd by the sound of that majestic flood,
apparition. A horseman on a sudden I espied,

Galloping by as quickly as he could;
I hail'd him, but he slacken'd not his pace,
Still urging on his steed, a gallant grey,
Until he past me, then he turn'd his face

Back towards his horse's tail, and thus did say,

"I ride express with news to strike you dumb,

"Our monarch has arrived at last--King George the Fourth is

come!"

Which teaveth him in ane awkward doldrum, after the manner of W. Wordsworth, Esq.

Shaketh it off, and mareheth homewards.

2.

He scarce had spoken, ere away he pass'd
Out of my sight as rapid as a bird,
And left me there in much amazement cast,
Looking, perhaps, in some degree absurd;
The noble river rolling calmly by,

The horse, the hasty rider, all did seem,

Even to the vision of my outward eye,

Like the thin shadowy figments of a dream;

I felt, in short, as Wordsworth did, when he

Chanced the leech gatherer on the moor all by himself to see.

3.

By the exertion of judicious thought,

At last I from this mental trance awoke, Marvelling much how in that lonely spot,

Upon my eyes so strange a vision broke; From the green bank immediately I went, And into Limerick's ancient city sped; During my walk, with puzzled wonderment

I thought on what the rapid horseman said; And, as is commonly the case, when I

Feel any way oppress'd in thought, it made me very dry.

4.

When I arrived in brick-built George's Street,
Instinctively I there put forth my hand
To where a bottle, stored with liquid sweet,
Did all upon an oaken table stand;

Then turning up my little finger strait,

I gazed like Docter Brinkley on the sky,

Whence heavenly thought I caught-pure and elate
Of holy harpings of deep poesy;

And, ere a moment its brief flight could wing,

I threw the empty bottle down, to chaunt about the King.

Turneth stargazer.

ODE.

1.

A very glorious day this is indeed!

This is indeed a very glorious day!
For now our gracious monarch will proceed
On Irish ground his royal foot to lay.
Rejoice then, O my country, in a tide
Of buoyant, foaming, overflowing glee;
As swells the porter o'er the gallon's side,
So let your joy swell up as jovially;
Shout, great and little people, all and some,

Our monarch has arrived at last-King George the Fourth has

come!

2.

Come down, ye mountains, bend your numbsculls low,

Ye little hills run capering to the shore,

Now on your marrow bones, all in a row,
From all your caves a royal welcome roar.

He calleth upon Ireland to rejoice in the fashion of a pot of portter.

Inviteth the mountains to ane saraband.

* Professor of Astronomy, in T. C. D.