B

Was it alone to make me think

Of those sweet eyes of darkest hue, That love might hover near the brink, And lead my soul to dream of you? If so, I'll knight, if you desire, A-H-M B-D―Y K--G, Esquire; And though it gives my bosom pain, I'll do two things not very easy; I'll leave your rival down at S-ne, And run away from EH

-Y!

LINES ON THE RECEPTION OF A CERTAIN

MARQUIS IN IRELAND.

"'Twas not for him whose soul was cast

In the bright mould of ages past;

Whose melancholy spirit fled

With all the glories of the dead,

'Twas not for him to swell the crowd
Of slavish heads that shrinking bow'd

Before the

as he past,

Like shrubs beneath the poison blast!"

MOORE.

OH say not that my country stands,
A mark of scorn to other lands,-
That one proud spirit could descend
To welcome as a generous friend,
Or take the hand that years before*
Way'd high the scourge, and smote her sore!

Oh say
not that one Irish heart
Could stoop to that ignoble part-
One patriot bosom join the throng,
Except to view with hatred strong
The man who thus rewarded came,
For treach'rous deeds too black to name,
And now who tamely could behold
The land whose rights he basely sold!

But rather say-from Slav'ry's den
Rush'd forth a host of O***gemen,-
A corp'rate band of city knaves,
Fit only for the work of slaves!

Who, when their country's freedom lay
Prostrate and chain'd by C*********H,
And all those noble ends were foil'd
Which heroes bled for-patriots toil'd,
Then did those recreant slaves exult,
Who now, with joyous wild tumult,
Welcomes the
Born but to be his country's curse!
And took his faithless word on trust,

or something worse,

Who would not if he could be just!

NEW IRISH MELODY.

Air-" A Landlady in France."

THERE'S an Alderman here looking foolish and fat,
With cheeks not much given to dimples;

With a mouth full as wide as a large brewer's vat,
And a nose richly studded with pimples.

He waddles along with abundance of grace,
Though sometimes cast down from deep think-
ing;

And few could mistake from one look at his face
That he's dreaming of eating and drinking!

He has written a volume on every dish-
'Tis a learned and eloquent treatise;

On turtle, and ven'son, and wild-fowl, and fish,
Which he gave Mr. MORRISON* gratis !

* The prince of cooks in Dublin.

His exquisite taste ages yet will admire,
When the Alderman down in the earth is;
And cooks of both sexes get drunk o'er the fire,
In pledging thy fame, BILLY Cs!

B.