Were it possible to account for the occasional curvettings of a poet's fancy, we might be tempted to ask, what strange associations could have suggested to this lady's imagination, so far-fetched an etymology?-The Marquis of Camden, who has been made a Marquis pretty much about the same time with Lord Wellington, in order to show what various roads there are to honours in this country, has been most judiciously selected by this poet to represent the Earth; of which, whether in the Council or in the Senate, His Lordship is, for a thousand earthly reasons, an admirable fac simile we wish him health and many days to per sonify the excess of the equatorial over the polar dia meter. Lord Castlereagh, on account, we presume, of his known affinity to the Marquis, is selected to shine as the chaste, the mild, the placid, smooth-faced. Moon, changing so constantly, and each time with such an air of graceful self-composure, as if conscious that his variety was charming; appearing one of the largest and most luminous bodies in the heavens, though incontestably the most insignificant opaque speck in our system-all that issues from him mere moonshine; and notwithstanding the lucid show of his bright and polished surface, yet presenting, upon a closer inspection, a deceitful disk, rough with projections, and dark with many cavities, whose shadows fall within them; to say nothing of his lunar influence on the brain, by which a whole people have been moon-struck with a madness, nothing, it was said, but stripes could cure. She describes His Lordship's eclipses and obscurations in a strain of splendid poetry, and compares him, while speaking, to one of those comets, that, after appearing for a time, launch out into the regions of indefinite space, where it is impossible to trace them.

[See p. 301.]

J

THE

THE INNOCENT CANNIBALS

A TALE TOO TRUE.

[From the same, Sept. 3.]

IT is decreed by Him beyond the sky,

Jew, Pagan, Turk, and Christian too, must die
Though they sojourn in Eugland or Jamaic',
They must, at last, of all on earth leave take.

So Moses, a rich Jew in Spanish Town,
Stretch'd on his death-bed, in a dying groan
Desir'd those near, that, by some bark or other,
His body might to London jog

For burial in the Synagogue,

Pack'd tidy up, and consign'd to his brother,
Now to these folks it did occur,

The squeamish Skipper might demur;
Might swear" no stinking body should
Pollute his vessel, damn its blood!"
With other horrid oaths, a Baker's dozen,
He would not ship it, if it was his cousin!"
Therefore, to contravene this crisis,
They cut the carcass into slices,
And pack'd them in a barrel full of brine;
(Just as a butcherman in Cork

Puts up in pickle lumps of pork,
For sailors' eating, barrels up the swine:)
And to prevent the squeamish thief
From boggling at the bill of lading,
Prescribed by the laws of trading,

They painted on the barrel,

Prime Jew's beef

For Jacob Verp, Old Jewry, number nine."
But it fell out through Fortune's sport,
(For Fortune is a fickle slut,)

Their passage long, provisions short,
The sailors to their shifts were put,
And, quite impatient so to fare ill,
Fell foul of what was in the barrel ;
Interring him, by forc'd anticipation,
A Member of the Circumcised Nation,.
0.4

Knowing

Knowing no more, while gulping down their grog,
Than Pope of Rome, that keeps St. Peter's keys,
That they were bilking of his burial-fees
The High Priest of a Hebrew Synagogue!
The ship arriv'd in river Thames,
Comes Jacob Verp, with bill of lading,
And, on the wharf, his barrel claims,

As was his right, by rules of trading.
The Captain then, in manner mild and sweet,
Explain'd to Jacob why he us'd the meat;
Confess'd his hungry crew and he,
Compell'd by dire necessity,

Seeing from famine no relief,
Were forc'd to trench upon the Beef;"
Then money from his pocket drew
To reimburse the gaping Jew;
When, to this Skipper's horrible surprise,

Jacob, with rivers running from both eyes,

Exclaim'd (wild-staring one way and then t'other),

"Goot Gaat Almighty, Shaer, you have devour'd my Brother!"

PAUL PINDAR.

SIR HOME POPHAM'S EXPLOITS,

[From the British Press, Sept. 3.]

PRAY what did Sir Home Popham do?

He's kill'd, they say, a man or two!
Did Sir Home Popham do no more ?
Yes, he's wounded three or four!
Now, is this all you say he 's done?
No, he besides has spik'd a gun;
And this is all? Indeed, 't is true,
But is not half he said he'd do.

THE

THE LADS OF PARIS!-A NEW SONG.
[From the Morning Herald, Sept. 5.]

TARGANTUA was a glutton bold,
As lives in song or ballad :

He, after dinner, once devour'd
Six Pilgrims in a salad!

But, while a simpleton like this
A single soul is munching,
A Lad of Paris will eat up
A Reg'ment for his luncheon!
So sharp his appetite, we 're told,
(Nor can it be confuted,)

By way of Sandwich, he'll gulp down
Ten Cossacks spurr'd and booted!
And though a leg of mutton serves
A hungry Londɔn sinner;
Your Paris Lads, 't is said, require
An Army for their dinner!

And this is all I have to wish,
That, spite of their long swords, Sir,
These Paris Lads, for their next dish,
Be forc'd to eat their words, Sir.

Q.

I

TRANSLATION QF HORACE. [From the Morning Chronicle, Sept. 8.] MR. EDITOR,

WAS, some time ago, intrusted with the publication of a Work, entitled, "Odes of Horace, done into English by several Persons of Fashion," and the printing of it is, at present, very far advanced; but, perceiving that the great Quarto Leviathan of Poetry is about to make another plunge in the ocean, I know how dangerous it is for small fry to come in

* See the story related in Rabelais, "in choice French."

298 HORACE, ODE 11. LIB. 2. TRANSLATED.

contact with him, and shall, therefore, reserve my Work for some more halcyon season. In the mean time I shall, now and then, give the public a prelibation of its merits, through the medium of your very respectable Journal. As it is done by persons of the very first fashion, you may depend upon its containing nothing offensive to the higher powers: indeed, I know the character of your Journal too well, to suppose that it would admit any allusions of that nature into its columns.

I am, Sir, yours, &c.

BIBLIOPOLA TRYPHON.

HORACE, ODE 11. LIB. 2.

FREELY TRANSLATED BY G. P. ESQ.

(1) COME, Y-rm-th, my boy, never trouble your brains About what your old croney,

The Emperor Boney,

Is doing or brewing on Muscovy's plains; (2) Nor tremble, my lad, at the state of our granaries; Should there come famine,

Still plenty to cram in

You always shall have, my dear Lord of the Stannaries!
Brisk let us revel, while revel we may ;

(3) For the gay bloom of fifty soon passes away,
And then people get fat,

And infirm, and all that,

(4) And a Wig (I confess it) so clumsily sits,
That it frightens the little Loves out of their wits.