At night up aloft while the still moon was clouding, The thought of his babes on his wretched mind crouding, He heav'd a last sigh, and fell dead from thə shrouding, The sea was the grave of Sadi the Moor. DESPONDING NEGRO. ON Afric's wide plains, where the Lions, loud roaring, With freedom stalk forth, the vast desart explor ing, I was dragg'd from my hut, enchain'd as a slave, In a dark floating dungeon, upon the salt wave. Spare a halfpenny! spare a halfpenny! spare a halfpenny to a poor Negro. Toss'd on the wide main, I, all wildly despairing, Burst my chains, rush'd on deck, with my eye-balls wide glaring, When the lightning's dread blast struck the inlets of day, And its glorious bright beams shut for ever away. The despoiler of man then his prospect thus losing Of gain, by my sale-not a blind bargain choosing, As my value, compar'd with my keeping, was light, Had me dash'd overboard in the dead of the night. And but for a bark, to Britannia's coast bound then, All my cares, by that plunge in the deep, had been drown'd then; But, by moonlight descry'd, I was snatch'd from the wave, And reluctantly robb'd of a wat❜ry grave. How disastrous my fate! freedom's ground tho' I tread now Torn from home, wife and children, and wand'ring for bread now, While seas roll.between us, which ne'er can be cross'd, And hope's distant glimm'rings in darkness are lost. But of minds foul and fair, when the judge and the pond'rer, Shall restore light and rest to the blind and the The European's deep dye may out-rival the stoe, THE OLD SOLDIER. MARK, my love, yon broke-up soldier, No come here, my honest fellow, By my soul the vet'ran's touch'd me, Lead him, lead him, gently on, boy, PADDY O'ROURKE, or the PIG under the POT. WHEN I was a young man in sweet Tipperary, To active, so merry, so brisk and so airy, Oh! Paddy O'Rourke was the joy of my soul. With my bubberoo, didderoo, up and down nimble, in and out, round about, leather away long, with my jug and jug whisky, my to and fro frisky, I sung for the girls, and this was my song. At the fair of Clogheen I met with my Jewel, I lifted my Judy o'er many a stile; As we came to a wood, Oh! says she, you're not good, And this is the place where poor me you'll beguile. With your bubberoo, didderoo, &c. A Pig I brought home from the fair to my daddy, And Judy had bought there a neat iron pot; Your Pig underneath you'll put, my own Paddy, And then you'll undo me by this and by that The birds sung around us, while love and love crown'd us; But whether I there took the hint or did not, I'll leave you to guess it, but Judy will bless it, The day that I put the Pig under the Pot. With my bubberoo, didderoo, &c. ***** THE BOTTLE. WHATE ER squeamish lovers may say, I enjoy her by night and by day, Yet she grows. still more lovely and kind: Of her beauties I never am cloy'd, For tho' thousands may broach her, By Jove I shall feel neither envy nor spleen, Should I try to describe all her merit, With her praises I ne'er should have done; She's brimful of sweetness and spirit, And sparkles with freedom and fun : Her stature's majestic and tall, And taper her bosom and waist; Her neck long, her mouth round and small, You may grasp her with ease by the middle, But the sweetest of raptures that flow, Is sure when her head is laid low, And her bottom's turn'd up to the skics: And the farther and deeper you're in her, For tho', &c, Thus naked and clasp'd in my arms, When I share her delights with a friend : To Divinity, Physic or Law Her favours I never shall grudge; Tho' each night she may make a faux pas, With the Bishop, the Doctor, or Judge. For tho', &c. THE LADIES TAILOR. YE belles that in riding delight, And Roger M'Strong is my name; A better from London near came. Your London-bred Tailors, I own, Three years every art I have try'd, |