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
wand'rer,

The European's deep dye may out-rival the stoe,
And the soul of an Ethiop prove white as the snow,

THE OLD SOLDIER.

MARK, my love, yon broke-up soldier,
View the big tear in his eye!
Hard misfortune presses on him;
Must he pass unheeded by?

No come here, my honest fellow,
There 'twill help thee on thy way
Nay, no thanks, 'tis but a trifle,
Thou hast seen a better day.

By my soul the vet'ran's touch'd me,
What! so proud-and yet so poor!
Stop, stop, stop! we must not part so,
That will something more procure.
Fare thee well, thou good Old Soldier,
Honor'd be thy ev'ry scar;

Lead him, lead him, gently on, boy,
He has play'd his part in war.

PADDY O'ROURKE, or the PIG under the POT.

WHEN I was a young man in sweet Tipperary,
To dance with a piper or hurl on the green,

To active, so merry, so brisk and so airy,
The devil my fellow was scarce ever seen;
There was Judy Malfinnan, with skin white as linen,
Good humour'd her face as a full flowing bowl,
If under the bushes, or on the green rushes,

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 kiss'd her, myself was as bold as a ram;
Be easy, says she, and she look'd very cruel,
I soften'd her heart with a drop of a dram;
The night was advancing, so home we led pranc.
ing,

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,
A mistress I've found to my mind;

I enjoy her by night and by day,

Yet she grows. still more lovely and kind:

Of her beauties I never am cloy'd,
Tho' I-constantly stick by her side;
Nor despise her because she's enjoy'd
By a legion of lovers beside.

For tho' thousands may broach her,
May broach her, may broach her,

By Jove I shall feel neither envy nor spleen,
Nor jealous can prove of the mistress I love;
For a bottle, a bottle, a bottle's the mistress I mean;
Nor jealous can prove of the mistress I love;
For a bottle, a bottle, a bottle's the mistress I mean.

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,
And her lips how delicious to taste!
For tho', &c.

You may grasp her with ease by the middle,
To be open how vast her delight;
And yet her whole sex is a riddle,
You never can stop her too tight.
When your finger you once introduce,
To her circle and magical power,
Pop away from within flies the juice,
And your senses are drown'd in the shower.
For tho', &c.

But the sweetest of raptures that flow,
From the bountiful chariner I prize;

Is sure when her head is laid low,

And her bottom's turn'd up to the skics:
Stand to her and fear not to win her,
She'll never prove peevish or coy;

And the farther and deeper you're in her,
The fuller she'll fill you with joy.

For tho', &c,

Thus naked and clasp'd in my arms,
With her my sweet moments I'll spend;
And revel the more on her charms,

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,
Who rejoice in the crack of the whip,
If, when mounted, you wish to be tight,
Let me your fair persons equip;
A plain Irish Tailor am I,

And Roger M'Strong is my name;
Tho' born near the town of Athy,

A better from London near came.

Your London-bred Tailors, I own,
The gentlemen's shapes better hit;
But your true Irish artists are known
The ladies much tighter to fit :
In Kilcock I first study'd my trade,
And to Dublin soon after I came;
Where many bold pushes I've made,
In hopes of arriving at fame.

Three years every art I have try'd,
This laudable end to obtain,
And my needle I've constantly ply'd,
In the centre of petticoat lane;
But wishing still higher to soar,
I've just to Smock-alley remov'd;
The button-hole graces my door;
A sign in all countries approv'd.