As

or strawberries and cherries in April; yet these, with all their enormity of price, are scarcely fit to keep company with wine at seven pounds per bottle. to butcher's meat and poultry, I trust no person of taste and fashion would ever think of disgracing their wine in such low company. Fish, indeed, may do something. There are times when that article, one would think, was almost fit to swim in his Grace's Tokay. Last Christmas, for example, we were told of four guineas and a half being given for a single cod-fish. This was pretty well, as it served only about six persons; and had the old Duke's sale then taken place, these guests might have quenched their thirst in a most consistent manner, Another little anecdote of later date convinces me that we may occasionally place an implicit reliance on the conscience of a fishmonger. A Lady of fashion, in a village near London, wished to entertain an illustrious young personage with a dish of fish. Unfortunately for her, the day happened to be what is called a great fish-day, and the fish she wanted was procured at a price too vulgar for me to notice, and not perhaps above twice the sum it would have cost a London citizen. What was to be done? She luckily thought of Smelts, and no smelts were at market! But that was no objection-Smelts must be got; and her fishmonger, no doubt with an infinite deal of pains, and travelling twice to town upon this important mission, procured a dozen of these favourite little fishes; for which he charged at the rate of only seven shillings each!—And here I think, for once, we have an instance of an article fit to be on our plates while the Duke's Tokay is going round: and I hope that this anecdote will illustrate what I term the consistency and uniformity of expenses, and for which I earnestly contend.

I am, Sir, yours,

HELIOGABALUS.

SEE, bursting forth from Valpy's classic press,
In all the pomp of typographic dress,

On skull-thick a libel most pernicious,

As

dull, as

malicious!

This" Wondrous Week," in hot-press'd robe attir'd,
Just prov'd a nine days' wonder, and expir'd.

PARIS IN AN UPROAR !

[From the General Evening Post, April 2.]

PARIS convuls'd!!!-Rebellion? No, you fool ;
The little King has had a greenish st—l.

Z.

FUN-DUNGUS.

EPIGRAM

ON THE Reported DEATH OF THE CHILD OF BONAPARTE.

[From the General Evening Post, April 4.]

SOON

as the Royal Infant came to light, He saw his Father-and he died of fright.

REGIMENTAL SONG,

BUGGYBO.

FOR THE 87TH REGIMENT, CALLED THE prince of WALES'S IRISH VOLUNTEERS.

BY CAPTAIN MORRICE.

[From the Morning Post, April 4]

[The following account is given of the origin of this song:-His Royal Highness the Prince, Patron of the

* See Critical Review, March 1811.

regiment,

regiment, on presenting its Colours, intimated to the celebrated Capt. Morrice his royal wish for an appropriate Song to be sung at all festivities of the corps. His Royal Highness's command was obeyed by Capt. Morrice, with a fervour which produced the happy thoughts combined in this little piece. The Song is preserved in the regiment as a most precious treasure, and is sung on every festive occasion with an exultation which those who have ever witnessed its effect have forcibly felt, yet can but faintly describe.] COME on, brother Soldiers! the field is now ended;

The bowl's merry music now calls us along :

True valour's best pleas'd, when with mirth it is blended,
And love's a gay chorus when glory's the song.
Then join in my list now, ye lads of true mettle!
The brave Eighty-seventh our voices shall raise;
The Muse, lads, wherever her eye she may settle,
Will ne'er find a subject more fit for her praise. -
At Loyalty's call, as a band of true brothers,

We sprang into arms, to give strength to her sway ;
And life, that's a debt paid to nature by others,
We brought, a free gift to the Prince we obey.
Our love for our country's as firm as old Cate's;
For our blest Constitution our Colours we rear:
We're the Prince's own lads, from the land of potatoes,
And no sound, but of glory, has charms for our ear.
Our Colours his own royal arm hath supported ;-
The charge of their fame to our honour he gave;
And we trust in the field, where true glory is courted,
They'll shine, like himself, the great hope of the brave.
May union and concord for ever then bind us ;

Through honour's bright field with one heart may we roam! Abroad, in all danger the foe ever find us;

And Friendship and Love ever meet us at home!
Thus his brave Royal Line, to the end of time's story,
May God and our arms ever shelter and save!
May the Shamrock be ever the crest of true glory!
And the Harp of Old Erin the charm of the brave!

EPIGRAM.

EPIGRAM.

[From the British Press, April 4.]

WHEN the D-1 engag'd with Job's patience in battle,
Tooth and nail strove to worry him out of his life,
He robb'd him of children, goods, houses, and cattle,
But, mark me--he ne'er thought of taking his Wife!
But Heaven at length Job's forbearance rewards,

And soon double wealth, double honour arrives ;
Heaven doubles his children, goods, houses, and herds-→→
But we don't hear a word of a couple of Wives!

MELOLOGUE.

[From the Morning Chronicle, April 6.]

[This Poem was recited at the Kilkenny Theatre in Ireland, at the close of the season, June 1810. The performers at the Theatre were gentlemen of the neighbouring country; and the profits of the performance were given to the different charitable institutions in Kilkenny. We understand that this Poem was written and recited by Mr. Moore, the elegant translator of Anacreon.]

(STRAIN OF MUSIC.)

THERE breathes the language known and felt
Far as the pure air spreads its living zone;
Wherever Rage can rouse, or Pity melt,

That language of the soul is felt and known.
From those meridian plains,

Where oft of old, on some high tower,
The soft Peruvian pour'd his midnight strains,

And call'd his distant love with such sweet power,

That when she heard the well-known lay,

No worlds could keep her from his arms away;
To those bleak realms of polar night,
Where the youth of Lapland's sky

Bids his rapid rein-deer fly,

And sings along the darkling waste of snow,
As blithe as if the blessed light

Of vernal Phœbus burn'd upon his brow.

O Music!

O Music! thy celestial claim
Is still resistless, still the same,
And faithful as the mighty sea

To the pole-star that o'er each realm presides,
The spell-bound tides

Of human passion rise and fall for thee.

(GREEK AIR.)

List! 't is a Grecian maid that sings,
While from Ilyssus' silvery springs

She draws the cool lymph in her graceful urn,
While by her side in Music's charm dissolving,
Some patriot youth the glorious past revolving,
Dreams of bright days that never can return;
When Athens nurs'd her olive brow

With hands by tyrant power unchain'd,
And braided for the Muse's brow

A wreath by tyrant touch unstain'd; When beroes trod each classic field Where coward feet now faintly falter, And ev'ry arm was Freedom's shield, And ev'ry heart was Freedom's altar.

(GREEK AIR, INTERRUPTED BY a trumpet.)

Hark! 't is the sound that charms

The war-steed's wakening ears—

Oh! many a mother folds her arms

Round her boy soldier, when that sound she hears;
And though her fond heart sinks with fears,
Is proud to feel his young pulse bound
With valour's fever at the sound.

See from his native hills afar
The rude Helvetian flies to war,
Careless for what, for whom he fights,
For slave or despot, wrongs or rights;
A conqueror oft, a hero never,

Yet lavish of his life-blood still,
As if 't were like his mountain rill,
And gush'd for ever!

O Music, here, even here,

Thy