To fix his eyes, like orbs of marble, there! And let his soul luxuriate in despair. Posterity! Ah, what's a name to thee! What Raphael is, my Allan then shall be. As the writer of the present notice intends to publish in a separate form the poetical verses of Odoherty, with authentic portraits of his friends, it is not necessary to quote any more of these effusions now. The pleasantry of the Ensign was always harmless, and his very satire was both dart and balsam. He never condescended to personalities, except in one solitary instance, in a song, entitled, "The Young Man of the West," composed upon Mr James Grahame, the famous Anti-Malthusian philosopher. This song he used to sing with great humour, to the tune of " A Cobler there was, &c." but though frequently urged to do so, he never would print it; and on his own manuscript copy there is this note, "Let the Young Man of the West be destroyed," an injunction which has since been scrupulously complied with. During one of those brilliant evenings at the Dilettanti, which, says our bard in a letter to the present writer, "will for ever live in the memory of all who enjoyed them," the conversation ran upon the Italian improvisatori. Odoherty remarked, that the power which appeared to many so wonderful, was no way uncommon, and offered to recite, or write down currente calamo, a poem upon any given subject. The president proposed "An Elegy, by a Young Lady in a Ball-room disappointed of a Partner," and the Adjutant wrote down the following twenty four-line stanzas in fifty-three minutes nineteen seconds by a stop-watch. Such an achievement throws the admirable Crichton into the shade. Elegy written in a Ball-room. THE beaux are jogging on the pictured floor, The belles responsive trip with lightsome heels; *Circassian captive. I round the room dispense a wistful glance, Wish Ned, or Dick, or Tom, would crave the honour; I hear Sam whisper to Miss B., "Dodance," And launch a withering scowl of envy on her. Sir Billy capers up to Lady Di; In vain I cough as gay Sir Billy passes; The Major asks my sister-faint I sigh, "Well after this the men are grown such asses !" In vain in vain! again the dancers mingle, With lazy eye I watch the busy scene, Far on the pillowed sofa sad and single, Languid the attitude-but sharp the spleen. "La! ma'am, how hot!"-" You're quite fatigued, I see;" "What a long dance!"—" And so you're come to town!" Such casual whispers are addressed to me, But not one hint to lead the next set down. The third, the fourth, the fifth, the sixth, are gone, And now the seventh-and yet I'm asked not once! When supper comes must I descend alone? Does Fate deny me my last prayer—a dunce? Mamma supports me to the room for munching, There turkey's breast she crams, and wing of pullet; I slobbering jelly, and hard nuts am crunching, And pouring tuns of trifle down my gullet. No beau invites me to a glass of sherry; Above me stops the salver of champaigne ; While all the rest are tossing brimmers merry, I with cold water comfort my disdain. Ye bucks of Edinburgh! ye tasteless creatures! Ye vapid Dandies! how I scorn you all! Green slender slips, with pale cheese-pairing features, female hand on hot-pressed gilt paper, is intended to explain the great leading object of the poem : There was a time when every sort of people And Observation sets one in the stocks, When you've been known a comic song to sing, Write notices, or any harmless thing. But styled "Auld Reekie" by all Celts now treading Her streets, bows, wynds, lanes, crescents, up and down, Her labyrinths of stairs and closes threading On other people's business or their ownThose bandy, broad-faced, rough-kneed, ragged laddies Those horny-fisted, those gill-swigging caddies.) This Edinburgh some call Metropolis, Tho' she abounds in men of sense and worth, There's our Mackenzie; all with veneration Poet and cavalier, kind, generous, true. But these and some few others being named, dinner. To give examples I should be ashamed, And people would cry, “ Lord! that wicked sinner!" (For all we gentry here are quite egg-shells, We can't endure jokes that come near 66 oorsells.") They say that knowledge is diffused and general, And taste and understanding are so common, man Exceptions 'gainst the fair were coarse and shocking I've seen in breeches many a true blue stocking. Blue Stocking stands, in my vocabulary, For one that always chatters (sex is nothing) About new books from June to January, And with re-echoed carpings moves your loathing. I like to see young people smart and airy, With well dressed hair and fashionable clothing, Can't they discourse about ball, rout, or play; I talked of roses, zephyrs, gurgling brooks, On Una that made sunshine in the shade, From the poem itself we quote the following stanzas, without any remarks, convinced that their simple elegance and unaffected grace stand in no need of the critics recommendation. I rose this morning about half past nine, And little balls of butter dished in water, Three eggs, two plateful of superb cold chine (Much recommended to make thin folks fatter); And having thus my ballast stow'd on board, And hinted rhymes to G-s for a sonnet; Down Prince's Street I once or twice paraded, And gazed upon these same eternal faces; Those beardless beaux and bearded belles, those faded And flashy silks, surtouts, pelisses, laces; Those crowds of clerks, astride on hackneys jaded, Dreaming enthusiasts who indulge vain Prancing and capering with notorial grace; whimsies, That they might pass in Bond Street or St James's. One to a herring in his lonely shop, I saw equestrian and pedestrian vanish And some of kind gregarious, and more clanish, To club at Waters' for a mutton-chop; Myself resolved for once my cares to banish, And give the Cerberus of thought a sop, Got Jack's, and Sam's, and Dick's, and Tom's consent, And o'er the Mound to Billy Young's we went. I am not nice, I care not what I dine on, Burst 'neath the shelter of that leafy screen; pear, Repose, ye weary travellers, on the green, Horace and Milton, Dante, Burns, and Schiller, Dined at a tavern-when they had "the siller." And ne'er did poet, epical or tragical, At Florence, London, Weimar, Rome, May. bole, See time's dark lanthern glow with hues more magical Than I have witnessed in the Coffin-hole. Let blank verse hero, or Spenserian rhymer, and porter. And O, my pipe, though in these Dandy days Few love thee, fewer still their love confess, Ne'er let me blush to celebrate thy praise, Divine invention of the age of Bess! newer, Puff, every brother, as it likes him best, Pipe! when I stuff into thee my canaster, Curling with balmy circles near my nose, But then the smoke's too near the eye by far, And if your leaf have got a straw within it, I have no doubt a long excursive hooker If once in the half hour a puff he brings. I rather follow in my smoking trim Who, while the evening air is warm and dim, ECHO, IN TWO POETICAL DIALOGUES. [The two following classical jeux d'esprit are extracted from the works of the Rev Francis Wrangham (3 vols 8vo. Baldwin & Co. London, 1816), one of the most accomplished of our living English scholars, and distinguished at the university of Cambridge as the successful competitor of the celebrated Tweddell. We intend, in an early Number, to offer some remarks on that class of writers of which we consider him an honourable representative. EDITOR.] Dialogue I. Παντοίων στοματων λαλον εικόνα, ποιμέσιν ἡδυ CAN ECHO speak the tongue of every country? ECHO. Try. Te virginem si fortè poscam erotica? Ma si ti sopra il futuro questionerò? Et puis-je te parler sur des choses passées? Dic mihi quæso virum, vitiis cui tot bona parta : What are the arms with which he now fights Britons? Quid nobis iterat tanto hic jactator hiatu? Ερώ ταχα, He can. But what, if he should chance to meet our navy? Atqui, ceu Xerxes, nostris fugere actus ab oris- Dialogue II. -Quæ nec reticere loquenti, ECHO. Eccomi! AGAIN I call; sweet Maid, come echo me. Τις δε τοσην αυτοις ενεπνευσ' Υπατε θρησκειαν ; Where would his Brest fleet in our empire land? Quisnam illum à Scotis manet exitus, auspice Moirâ? How best shall we 'scape this invasion's alarm? *Rev. ix. 11. Of gall. O chiens! All agree. Rot 'em, I say. Deuce a bit! All arm. LETTER FROM GLASGOW. Buck's Head, April 10, 1818. MR EDITOR, I BEG leave to offer a few observations on the second letter of Dr Nicol Jarvie, which has lately made so much noise in this city. The doctor is a wag, and possesses a genuine vein of humour, which, under good management, could not fail of amusing the public. But, like too many wits of the present day, he wants discretion. Instead of giving his powers fair play on some subject of general interest, he has let himself down by certain personalities which it is quite impossible to defend or justify. Some silly people would fain consider these personalities gross and insulting. That is by no means the case. But they are, what Dr Nicol Jarvie perhaps does not suspect them to be, very childish, or rather, to use an expressive Scots word, "unco bairnly.” There is also some indelicacy in printing at full length the christian and surnames |