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Till, fain to find a guest who thought them shorter,
He deign'd to tell them over to a porter-
The last edition see, by Long and Co.,
Rees, Hurst, and Orme, our fathers in the row.

Serendib found, deem not my tale a fiction-
This sultaun, whether lacking contradiction-
(A sort of stimulant which hath its uses,
To raise the spirits and reform the juices,
Sovereign specific for all sort of cures
In my wife's practice, and perhaps in yours,)
The sultaun lacking this same wholesome bitter,
Or cordial smooth, for prince's palate fitter-
Or if some Mollah had hag-rid his dreams
With Degial, Ginnistan, and such wild themes
Belonging to the Mollah's subtle craft,
1 wot not-but the sultaun never laugh'd,
Searce ate or drank, and took a melancholy
That scorn'd all remedy, profane or holy;
In his long list of melancholies, mad,
Or mazed, or dumb, hath Burton none so bad.
Physicians soon arrived, sage, ware, and tried,
As e'er scrawl'd jargon in a darken'd room;
With heedful glance the sultaun's tongue they

eyed, Peep'd in his bath, and God knows where beside, And then in solemn accents spoke their doom: "His majesty is very far from well." Then each to work with his specific fell: The Hakim Ibrahim instanter brought His unguent mahazzim al zerdukkaut,* While Roompot, a practitioner more wily, Relied on his munaskif al fillfily. More and yet more in deep array appear, And some the front assail, and some the rear; Their remedies to reinforce and vary, Came surgeon eke, and eke apothecary; Till the tired monarch, though of words grown chary, Yet dropt, to recompense their fruitless labour, Some hint about a bow-string or a sabre. There lack'd, I promise you, no longer speeches, To rid the palace of those learned leeches.

Then was the council called-by their advice,
(They deem'd the matter ticklish all, and nice,
And sought to shift it off from their own shoul-
Tatars and couriers in all speed were sent,
To call a sort of eastern parliament

Of feudatory chieftains and freeholders—
Such have the Persians at this very day,
My gallant Malcolm calls them couroultai;+
I'm not prepared to show in this slight song
That to Serendib the same forms belong,-
E'en let the learn'd go search, and tell me if



Each noble pants to own the glorious summors And for the charges-Lo! your faithful commons!" The riots who attended in their places

For these hard words see d'Herbelot, or the learned editor of the Recipes of Avicenna. +See sir John Malcolm's admirable History of Persia. + Nobility.

(Serendib language calls a farmer Riot) Look'd ruefully in one another's faces,

From this oration auguring much disquiet, Double assessment, forage, and free quarters; And fearing these as China-men the Tartars, Or as the whisker'd vermin fear the mousers, Each fumbled in the pocket of his trowsers. And next came forth the reverend Convocation, Bald heads, white beards, and many a turban green, Imaum and Mollah there of every station,

Santon, Fakir, and Calendar were seen. Their votes were various-some advised a mosque With fitting revenues should be erected, With seemly gardens and with gay kiosque, To recreate a band of priests selected:" Others opined that through the realms a dole

Be made to holy men, whose prayers might proft The sultaun's weal in body and in soul;

But their long-headed chief, the sheik Ul-Sofit, More closely touch'd the point;-" Thy studions


Quoth he, "O prince! hath thickened all thy blood,

And dull'd thy brain with labour beyond measure; Wherefore relax a space and take thy pleasure, And toy with beauty, or tell o'er thy treasure; From all the cares of state, my liege, enlarge thee, And leave the burthen to thy faithful clergy." These counsels sage availed not a whit,

And so the patient (as is not uncommon Where grave physicians lost their time and wit) Resolved to take advice of an old woman: His mother she, a dame who once was beauteous, And still was call'd so by each subject duteous. Now, whether Fatima was witch in earnest, Or only made believe, I cannot sayBut she professed to cure disease the sternest, By dint of magic amulet or lay; And, when all other skill in vain was shown, She deem'd it fitting time to use her own. "Sympathia magica hath wonders done," (Thus did old Fatima bespeak her son,)

It works upon the fibres and the pores, And thus, insensibly, our health restores, And it must help us here.-Thou must endure The ill, my son, or travel for the cure, Search land and sea, and get, where'er you can, The inmost vesture of a happy man,

I mean his SHIRT, my son, which, taken warm
And fresh from off his back, shall chase your harm
Bid every current of your veins rejoice,
And your dull heart leap light as shepherd-boy's.'
Such was the counsel from his mother came.
know not if she had some under-game,
As doctors have, who bid their patients roam
And live abroad, when sure to die at home;
Queen Regent sounded better than queen Mother,
Or if she thought, that, somehow or another,
But, says the chronicle, (who will go look it?)

That such was her advice-the sultaun took it.
All are on board-the sultaun and his train,
In gilded galley prompt to plough the main:
The old rais was the first who questioned,

The Omrahs, each with hand on scimitar,
Gave, like Sempronius, still their voice for war-I
"The sabre of the sultaun in its sheath
Too long has slept, nor owned the work of death;
Let the Tambourgi bid his signal rattle,
Bang the loud gong, and raise the shout of battle!
This dreary cloud that dims our sovereign's day
Shall from his kindled bosom flit away,
When the bold Lootie wheels his courser round,
And the arm'd elephant shall shake the ground.

"Was call'd the happy many ages since—
For Mokha, rais."--
-And they came



They paused" Arabia," thought the pensive Replied the Frenchman, after a brief pause,
"Jean Bool!-1 vas not know him-yes, 1 vas—
I vas remember dat one year or two,
I saw him at one place called Vaterloo-
Ma foi! il s'est très-joliment battu,
Dat is for Englishman,-m'entendez-vous?
But den he had wit him one damn son-gun,
Rogue 1 no like-dey call him Vellington."
Monsieur's politeness could not hide his fret,
So Solimaun took leave and cross'd the streight.
John Bull was in his very worst of moods,
Raving of sterile farms and unsold goods;
His sugar-loaves and bales about he threw,
And on his counter beat the devil's tattoo.
His wars were ended, and the victory won,
But then 'twas reckoning-day with honest John,
And authors vouch 'twas still this worthy's way,
"Never to grumble till he came to pay;
And then he always thinks, his temper's such,
The work too little, and the pay to much.*
Yet, grumbler as he is, so kind and hearty,

That when his mortal foe was on the floor,
And past the power to harm his quiet more,
Poor John had well nigh wept for Bonaparte!
Such was the wight whom Solimaun salam'd-
"And who are you," John answered, "and be


But not in Araly with all her balm,
Nor where Judæa weeps beneath her palm,
Not in rich Egypt, not in Nubian waste,
Could there the step of happiness be traced.
One copt alone profess'd to have seen her smile,
When Bruce his goblet fill'd at infant Nile:
She bless'd the dauntless traveller as he quaff'd,
But vanished from him with the ended draught.
"Enough of turbans," said the weary king,
"These dolimans of ours are not the thing;
Try we the Giaours, these men of coat and cap,
Incline to think some of them must be happy;
At least they have as fair a cause as any can,
They drink good wine, and keep no Ramazan.
Then northward, ho!" The vessel cuts the sea,
And fair Italia lies upon her lee.-
But fair Italia, she who once unfurled
Her eagle-banners o'er a conquered world,
Long from her throne of domination tumbled,
Lay, by her quondam vassals, sorely humbled;
The pope himself look'd pensive, pale, and lean,
And was not half the man he once had been.
"While these the priest and those the noble

Our poor old boot," they said," is torn to pieces.
Its topst the vengeful claws of Austria feel,
And the great devil is rending toe and heel. +
If happiness you seek, to tell you truly,
We think she dwells with one Giovanni Bulli;
A tramontane, a heretic,-the buck,
Poffaredio! still has all the luck;

By land or ocean never strikes his flag-
And then-a perfect walking money-bag,"
Off set our prince to seek John Bull's abode,
But first took France-it lay upon the road.
Monsieur Baboon, after much late commotion,
Was agitated like a settling ocean,
Quite out of sorts, and could not tell what ail'd

"Pray, can you tell me aught of one John Bull, That dwells somewhere beyond your herringpool?"

Only the glory of his house had fail'd him;
Besides, some tumours on his noddle biding,
Gave indication of a recent hiding.§

Our prince, though sultauns of such things are

Next door to John there dwelt his sister Peg,
Once a wild lass as ever shook a leg,


Thought it a thing indelicate and needless
To ask, if at that moment he was happy,
And Monsieur, seeing that he was comme il faut,
Loud voice mustered up, for " Vive le Roi!"
Then whisper'd, "Ave you any news of Nappy?"
The sultaun answered him with a cross ques-

When the blith bagpipe blew-but soberer now,
She doucely span her flax and milk'd her cow.
And whereas erst she was a needy slattern,
Nor now of wealth or cleanliness a pattern,
Yet once a month her house was partly swept,
And once a-week a plenteous board she kept.
And whereas eke the vixen used her claws,

The query seemed of difficult digestion,
The party shrugg'd, and grinn'd, and took his snuff,
And found his whole good breeding scarce enough.
Twitching his visage into as many puckers
As damsels wont to put into their tuckers,
(Ere liberal fashion damn'd both lace and lawn,
And bade the veil of modesty be drawn,)

The well-known resemblance of Italy in the map.
Florence, Venice, &c.

The Calabrias, infested by bands of assassins. One of
the leaders was called Fra Díavolo, i. e. Brother Devil.
§ Or drubbing, so called in the Slang Dictionary.

"A stranger, come to see the happiest man,-
So, seignior, all avouch,-in Frangistan."+—
"Happy! my tenants breaking on my hand?
Unstock'd my pastures, and untill'd my land;
Sugar and rum a drug, and mice and moths
The sole consumers of my good broad cloths—
Happy? why, cursed war and racking tax
Have left us scarcely raiment to our backs."
"In that case, seignior, I may take my leave;
I came to ask a favour-but I grieve"-
"Favour?" said John, and eyed the sultaun hard,
"It's my belief you came to break the yard!-
But, stay, you look like some poor foreign sinner,-
Take that, to buy yourself a shirt and dinner.".
With that he chuck'd a guinea at his head;
But, with due dignity, the sultaun said,—
"Permit me, sir, your bounty to decline;
A shirt indeed I seek, but none of thine.
Seignior, I kiss your hands, so fare you well."
"Kiss and be d-d," quoth John, "and go to

And teeth, of yore, on slender provocation,
She now was grown amenable to laws,

A quiet soul as any in the nation;
The sole remembrance of her warlike joys
Was in old songs she sang to please her boys.
John Bull, whom, in their years of early strife,
She wont to lead a cat-and-doggish life,
Now found the woman, as he said, a neighbour,
Who look'd to the main chance, declined no la

Loved a long grace, and spoke a northern jargon,
And was dd close in making of a bargain.

See the True-Born Englishman, by Daniel de Foe. + Europe.

The sultaun enter'd, and he made his leg,
And with decorum curtsied sister Peg;
(She lov'd a book, and knew a thing or two,
And guess'd at once with whom she had to do.)
She bade him "sit into the fire," and took
Her dram, her cake, her kebbock from the nook;
Asked him "about the news from eastern parts;
And of her absent bairns, puir highland hearts!
If peace brought down the price of tea and pepper,
And if the nitmugs were grown ony cheaper?
Were there nae speerings of our Mungo Park-
Ye'll be the gentleman that wants the sark?
If ye wad buy a web o' auld wife's spinning,
I'll warrant ye it's a weel-wearing linen."
Then up got Peg, and round the house 'gan scuttle,

In search of goods her customer to nail,
Until the sultaun strain'd his princely throttle,
And hollow'd-" Ma'am, that is not what I'ail.
Pray, are you happy, ma'am, in this snug glen?"
"Happy!" said Peg; "What for d'ye want to ken?
Besides, just think upon this by-gane year,


Grain wadna pay the yoking of the pleugh." "What say you to the present?" Meal's sae dear, To mak their brose my bairns have scarce aneugh. "The devil take the shirt," said Solimaun, "I think my quest will end as it began. Farewell, ma'am; nay, no ceremony, I beg--" "Ye'll no be for the linen then?" said Peg. Now, for the land of verdant Erin,

The sultaun's royal bark is steering,
The Emerald Isle where honest Paddy dwells,
The cousin of John Bull, as story tells.
For a long space had John, with words of thunder,
Hard looks, and harder knocks, kept Paddy under,
Till the poor lad, like boy that's flogg'd unduly,
Had gotten somewhat restive and unruly.
Hard was his lot and lodging, you'll allow,
A wigwam that would hardly serve a sow;
His landlord, and of middlemen two brace,
Had screw'd his rent up to the starving place;
His garment was a top-coat, and an old one,
His meal was a potatoe, and a cold one;
But still for fun or frolic, and all that,
In the round world was not the match of Pat.
The sultaun saw him on a holiday,
Which is with Paddy still a jolly day:
When mass is ended, and his load of sins
Confess'd, and mother church hath from her binns
Dealt forth a bonus of imputed merit,
Then is Pat's time for faney, whim, and spirit!
To jest, to sing, to caper fair and free,
And dance as light as leaf upon the tree.
"By Mahomet," said sultaun Solimaun,
"That ragged fellow is our very man!
Rush in and seize him-do not do him hurt,
But, will he nill he, let me have his shirt."-
Shilela their plan was well nigh after baulking,
(Much less provocation will set it a-walking,)
But the odds that foil'd Hercules foil'd Paddy


They seized, and they floor'd, and they stripped


Up-bubboo! Paddy had not-a shirt to his back!!! And the king, disappointed, with sorrow and shame, Went back to Serendib as sad as he came.


WELCOME, grave stranger, to our green retreats, Where health with exercise and freedom meets!

Thrice welcome, sage, whose philosophic plan
By Nature's limits metes the rights of man;
Generous as he, who now for freedom bawls,
Now gives full value for true Indian shawls;
O'er court, o'er custom-house, his shoe who flings,
Now bilks excisemen, and now bullies kings.
Like his, I ween, thy comprehensive mind
Holds laws as mouse-traps baited for mankind;
Thine eye, applausive, each sly vermin sees,
That baulks the snare, yet battens on the cheese,
Thine ear has heard, with scorn instead of awe,
Our buckskin'd justices expound the law,
Wire-draw the acts that fix for wires the pain,
And for the netted partridge noose the swain;
And thy vindictive arm would fain have broke
The last light fetter of the feudal yoke,
To give the denizens of wood and wild,
Nature's free race, to each her free-born child.
Hence hast thou mark'd, with grief, fair London's


Mock'd with the boon of one poor Easter chase,
And long'd to send them forth as free as when
Pour'd o'er Chantilly the Parisian train,
When musket, pistol, blunderbuss, combined,
And scarce the field-pieces were left behind!
A squadron's charge each leveret's heart dismayed,
On every covey fired a bold brigade;
La douce Humanité approved the sport,

For great the alarm indeed, yet small the hurt;
Shouts patriotic solemnized the day,
And Seine re-echoed Vive la Liberté!
But mad Citoyen, meek Monsieur again,
With some few added links resumes his chain;
Then since such scenes to France no more are
Come, view with me a hero of thine own!
One, whose free actions vindicate the cause
Of sylvan liberty o'er feudal laws.

Seek we yon glades, where the proud oak o'ertops Wide-waving seas of birch and hazel copse, Leaving between deserted isles of land, Where stunted heath is patch'd with ruddy sand; And lonely on the waste the yew is seen, Or straggling hollies spread a brighter green. Here, little worn, and winding dark and steep, Our scarce mark'd path descends yon dingle deep: Follow-but heedful, cautious of a trip. In earthly mire philosophy may slip, Step slow and wary o'er that swampy stream, Till, guided by the charcoal's smothering steam, We reach the frail yet barricaded door Of hovel formed for poorest of the poor; No hearth the fire, no vent the smoke receives, The walls are wattles, and the covering leaves; For, if such hut, our forest statutes say, Rise in the progress of one night and day, (Though placed where still the conqueror's hests


And his son's stirrup shines the badge of law,)
The builder claims the unenviable boon,
To tenant dwelling, framed as slight and soon
As wigwam wild, that shrouds the native frore
On the bleak coast of frost-barr'd Labrador.*

* Such is the law in the New Forest, Hampshire, tending greatly to increase the various settlements of thieves, smugglers, and deer-stealers, who infest it. In the forest courts the presiding judge wears as a badge of office an antique stirrup, said to have been that of William Refus See Mr. William Rose's spirited poem, entitled “ The Red King."

Approach, and through the unlatticed window peep

Nay, shrink not back, the inmate is asleep;
Sunk mid yon sordid blankets, till the sun
Stoop to the west, the plunderer's toils are done.
Loaded and primed, and prompt for desperate hand,
Rifle and fowling-piece beside him stand,
While round the hut are in disorder laid
The tools and booty of his lawless trade;
For force or fraud, resistance or escape,
The crow, the saw, the bludgeon, and the crape.
His pilfered powder in yon nook he hoards,
And the filch'd lead the church's roof affords-
(Hence shall the rector's congregation fret,
That while his sermon's dry, his walls are wet.)
The fish-spear barb'd, the sweeping net are there,
Doe-hides, and pheasant plumes, and skins of hare,
Cordage for toils, and wiring for the snare.
Barter'd for game from chase or warren won,
Yon cask holds moonlight,* run when moon was


And late snatch'd spoils lie stow'd in hutch apart, To wait the associate higgler's evening cart.

Look on his pallet foul, and mark his rest: What scenes perturb'd are acting in his breast! His sable brow is wet and wrung with pain, And his dilated nostril toils in vain, For short and scant the breath each effort draws, And 'twixt each effort Nature claims a pause. Beyond the loose and sable neck-cloth stretch'd, His sinewy throat seems by convulsions twitch'd, While the tongue falters, as to utterance loth, Sounds of dire import-watch-word, threat, and oath.

Though, stupified by toil and drugg'd with gin,
The body sleeps, the restless guest within
Now plies on wood and wold his lawless trade,
Now in the fangs of justice wakes dismayed.—
"Was that wild start of terror and despair,
Those bursting eye-balls, and that wildered air,
Signs of compunction for a murdered hare?
Do the locks bristle and the eye-brows arch,
For grouse or partridge massacred in March?"
No, scoffer, no! Attend, and mark with awe,
There is no wicket in the gate of law!
He, that would e'er so lightly set ajar
That awful portal must uudo each bar;
Tempting occasion, habit, passion, pride,
Will join to storm the breach, and force the bar-
rier wide.

That ruffian, whom truc men avoid and dread,
Whom bruisers, poachers, smugglers, call Black

Was Edward Mansell once;--the lightest heart,
That ever played on holiday his part!
The leader he in every christmas game,
The harvest feast grew blither when he came,
And liveliest on the chords the bow did glance,
When Edward named the tune and led the dance.
Kind was his heart, his passions quick and strong,
Hearty his laugh, and jovial was his song;
And if he loved a gun, his father swore,
"'Twas but a trick of youth would soon be o'er,
Himself had done the same some thirty years be-

But he, whose humours spurn law's awful yoke, Must herd with those by whom law's bonds are broke.

A cant name for smuggled spirits,

The common dread of justice soon allies
The clown, who robs the warren or excise,
With sterner felons trained to act more dread,
Even with the wretch by whom his fellow bled.
Then, as in plagues the foul contagions pass,
Leavening and festering the corrupted mass,-
Guilt leagues with guilt, while mutual motives

Their hope impunity, their fear the law;
Their foes, their friends, their rendezvous the same,
Till the revenue baulk'd, or pilfered game,
Flesh the young culprit, and example leads
To darker villany and direr deeds.

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Chill and stiff, and drench'd with rain,
Wishing dawn of morn again,

Though death should come with day.
'Tis at such a tide and hour,
Wizard, witch, and fiend have power,
And ghastly forms through mist and shower,
Gleam on the gifted ken;

And then the affrighted prophet's ear
Drinks whispers strange of fate and fear,
Presaging death and ruin near

Among the sons of men;--
Apart from Albyn's war-array,
'Twas then gray Allan sleepless lay;
Gray Allen, who, for many a day,
Had followed stout and stern,
Where through battle's rout and reel,
Storm of shot and hedge of steel,

Led the grandson of Lochiel, Valiant Fassiefern.

Through steel and shot he leads no more,
Low-laid 'mid friends' and foemen's gore-
But long his native lake's wild shore,
And Sunart rough, and high Ardgower,
And Morven long shall tell,

And proud Ben Nevis hear with awe,
How, upon bloody Quatre-Bras,
Brave Cameron heard the wild hurra
Of conquest as he fell.

Lone on the outskirts of the host,
The weary sentinel held post,
And heard, through darkness far aloof,
The frequent clang of courser's hoof,
Where held the cloaked patrole their course,
And spurred 'gainst storm the swerving horse;
But there are sounds in Allan's ear,
Patrole nor sentinel may hear,
And sights before his eye aghast
Invisible to them have passed,

When down the destined plain
Twixt Britain and the bands of France,
Wild as marsh-borne meteors glance,
Strange phantoms wheeled a revel dance,

And doomed the future slain.-

Such forms were seen, such sounds were heard, When Scotland's James his march prepared For Flodden's fatal plain;

Such, when he drew his ruthless sword, As choosers of the slain, adored

The yet unchristen'd Dane.

An indistinct and phantom band,
They wheeled their ring-dance hand in hand,
With gesture wild and dread;

The seer, who watched them ride the storm,
Saw through their faint and shadowy form
The lightnings flash more red;
And still their ghastly roundelay
Was of the coming battle-fray,
And of the destined dead.

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