But spite of all the world can say,
My talents yet feel no decay,

They 're what they were before;
And now, at sixty-nine, I still
Can fold my paper, point my quill ;-
And when did I do more?

Large parties, too, I still invite,
Nor these, as services too slight,
Ye Tory friends, contemn:

The Whigs, those Whigs who knew me well
For thirty tedious years, can tell

I did no more for them.

Then what's such idle talk about?

Think ye that age

shall

No! if so old I grow,

keep me out?

Less time to lose I thence infer;
And as to friends and character,

I lost them long ago.

A SALE.

[From the Dublin Evening Post.]

To be sold, the following articles of wearing appa

rel:-A coat that has been often turned, made in the county of Down, that will button on any side, and large enough to conceal a bow with two strings.-A large coat, made originally for the purser of a sloop of war. It has passed through almost as many editions as Sir Roger de Coverley's. The pockets are very large in the inside, but nearly worn out in carrying candle's-ends and cheese-parings.-A shabby suit, worn out, in the Dutch style, with some British embroidery on the breast, which was once the chief ornament of it, till it was sullied and spotted; nor can any Fuller's earth take out the stains.-A suit of fustian, the texture very flimsy, lined with long speeches, in the declamatory style, with a large quantity of staytape and buckram; the wearer first appeared in it at Eton, and afterwards concealed

concealed it under a naval cloak: it will take any colour, and of course suit any person engaged in dirty work.

April 1.

VERSES

TO THE HONOUR OF MR. DEPUTY BIRCH, WHO MARKS *NO POPERY" ON HIS PIES.

BY A COUNTRY PARSON.

[From the Morning Chronicle.]

I'LL sing the praise of Mr. Birch,

Whose pastry, watchful for the church,
Whene'er it sees or fears a plot,
Comes from his counter piping hot,
To warn us of the dire intent,
And, like himself, is eloquent.
Pale biscuits, and stout gingerbread,
Th' alarm of danger wisely spread,
The quaking custards join the cry,
And tartlets squeak-No Popery!

Defender of the faith-rare cook,
Who mak'st thy pastry-shop a book;
Whose Church-of-England oven bakes
Protestant apple-tarts and cakes!
Children, that feed upon thy pies,
Grow in religion as in size;

While, often as their mouths they ope,
They chew damnation to the Pope.
Fame shall desert th' ingenious Quaker,
To celebrate our cross-bun baker ;
Whose willing pupils, apter far
Than all the school of Lancaster,
Shall read and eat his name enroll'd
On cakes of gingerbread in gold.

But let me now to those be just,
Who join'd in raising Birch's crust:
Blest be they all! be blest the stuff
That was the oven for this puff,
(I mean the mother of the lad;)
And blest, whoe'er he was, the dad
F 3

That

That made his paste; but o'er the rest,
May that propitious Power be blest,
Who from the paste of Mr. Birch
Kneaded the pillar of our church!

April 1.

SIR,

POLITICAL PHANTASMAGORIA,
[From the same.],,

The time has been,

March 25, 1807.

That when the brains were out the man would die,
And there an end.-

1

Under this idea, we were congratulating ourselves upon the dissolution of party; and little apprehended that it would

-rise again

With twenty mortal murders on its head,
To push us from our stools.-

When, lo! a masked Galvanic battery is unexpectedly opened, and the monster is recalled to a momentary and convulsive semblance of life, with all its ghastly gesticulations.

But we live in an age of experiments and of exhibitions. In the grand raree-show of the world, while we are quietly looking at the "Temple of Solomon" in all its glory, it is instantly whisked away with a Hey! presto! pass!" and a shattered "Arch of Palmyra" is substituted in its stead, with the great key-stone crumbling by its side, in the dust! mere contrast might amuse us, did we not shudder for the traveller whom we see madly seeking shelter from the Arab or the tempest among its ruins. Poor creature! his chief peril is from his protector.

The

It is unnecessary. for me to say, that I allude to the political phantasmagoria recently displayed in His Ma

jesty's

jesty's councils. The change, it must be confessed, is a very thorough one: and its suddenness may perhaps gently try our temper: but we are not apt as a people to fly, like Prince Rupert's Drops, on every little concussion. For we can think as well as feel: and though we may "shed a few natural tears" over the violent extinction of such a body as that composed by a Grenville, a Spencer, a Fitzwilliam, a Howick, a Henry Petty, a Holland, an Erskine, an Ellenborough, a Moira, a Sidmouth, and a Windham, if we can duly appreciate character, we shall "soon wipe them," when we reflect upon that of their successors. They have, indeed, abolished the Slave Trade; in the midst of a most expensive war, they have suspended taxation; in the possession of power, they have consented to abridge its patronage and emoluments. But what are these labours, or these sacrifices, compared with the energies and the disinterestedness which we may expect from the green old age of a Portland, the artless eloquence of a Canning, the unembarrassed finance of a Castlereagh, the mature assiduity of a Chatham, the profound law of a Perceval, the blunt and (I may call it) awkward honesty of a Rose, the unparalleled genius of a Mulgrave, and the tried integrity of a Melville?

But the matter is too serious for burlesque; and, unless the notion of the wild Indians can be realized, which supposes that the abilities of their victims may be plundered with their other spoils, I see no chance of salvation for my country. We have been often told, indeed-upon suspicious authority, I own-that "All the Talents" have failed; and hence it seems to be inferred, by a spurious kind of logic, that the total want of talents must succeed. What ingenuity over shoots, imbecility may stumble upon. Yet this is a poor plank, on which to embark, in a stormy sea, the ponderous fortunes of Great Britain. And I must

F 4

still

still lift my voice against the measure, as pregnant with, perhaps, irretrievable mischief, although April 1. NO PAPIST.

THE MAGPIE.

L

AN EXCELLENT NEW BALLAD.

[From the Oracle.]

ET others sing the "two-string'd bow,"
"Mercurio tam quam Marte;"

And warlike skill of Castlereagh,
That frightens Bonaparte:

Let others sing of Hawkesbury's
Truth, parts, and public spirit;
And how Pitt's Cinque-port grant, for life,
Scarce pays such long-tried merit:

Let others sing Lord Chatham's care,
Economy, and zeal,

To guard the Ordnance purse from waste
His own he's kept so well:

Let others sing Lord Camden, and
The sapient Westmoreland;

Their talents, purity, and wit,

That bless'd poor Paddy's land:

Let others sing of Mulgrave's skill
To rule by land or sea;
Brilliant alike for troops or ships,
Or for diplomacy:

Let others sing of Portland's powers
For council and debate ;
His active mind and eloquence

To save a sinking state :

Let others sing of Eldon's faith,
And "conscience" clean and

pure:

Lord Sidmouth will most surely vouch
His honour tried and sure.

But