was a Miss-Molly to him! his very looks would rout one of our modern armies; and with that cut and thrust sword of his, sheathed in his eyelids, I believe even our London Militia, with Sir John Eamer at their head, would look a little blue-a scowl would make them ground arms "With such a furious tempest on his brows, As if the world's four winds were pent within With all his vagaries he is a fellow of spunk, and, making allowance for his Verba Tragica, "confusion, horror, guts, and death," he sings in as martial a style of pleasing apostrophe as any military bard of my acquaintance; in fact, I feel a little inspired myself on the occasion, and cannot resist to desire to try an imitation. Yours, &c. PADDY WHACK. * ARRAH! Sweet-lips, my jewel, so burnish'd and nice, The temper of a sword. No No drop of blood sticks to your keen-cutting edge;" But for splitting of heads, necks, and ribs, at a blow; THE THREE-TAIL BASHAW AND DOUBLE- T [From the Morning Chronicle, Dec. 31.] Mithra's setting, Mithra's orient ray, Tribes of the East their pious homage pay- Pious, yet prudent-Lo! our Eastern Lord A bag filled with water; a liquor not at all to my taste. The Arabian Poet has chosen the thought from the original Irish Feast What stabs and what cuts, What chatt'ring of sticks, What cudgels of oak Well harden'd in flame, To To George the Fourth-not George the Third, repairs; Neglects his evening, says his morning prayers. ON SEEING THE FOREGOING LINES. Tell us, Sun, the effect of this Prostitute's prayers; Sure, on further reflecting, you kick'd him down stairs. Radrum, Nov. 19. C. L. D. THE SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS, FOR 1811. EXTEMPORE, UPON RECENT DESERTIONS. [From the Morning Post, Jan. 8.] ÆSAR is sick; but all the Seers declare CE The fever 'll fly, and leave him free as air: What numbers throng to prove their Monarch's Shield! And, meanly thirsting after place and pow'r, WM. THOS. F-G-D. THE AUTHOR OF THE BERNE BEAR* TO HIS MUSE, IN DEFENCE OF HIS TALE AGAINST THE UNMERITED CHARGE OF REPUBLICANISM. [From the Morning Chronicle, Jan. 11.] MUSE! though our Bear has not one feature Malice, whate'er we say, or do, Is torturing four legs into two. Nay, worse!-She swears, O Nymph Pierian !: Though ardent to defend the Throne, Till thrown down Ruin's yawning steep While Whitbread's patriot strains o'erwhelm Those pilots who still grasp the helm, And there for no one reason sit, But that they are the dregs of Pitt. TWELFTH-NIGHT, 1811. [From the same.] M1 IRTH'S festive crew assemble to partake The merry joke, and year-revolving cake; and what their fate. The Prude this night her character forswears, The |