TOM Tropic, one day, in his way to Long Acre,

By chance met a friend-an unmannerly Quaker; "Come with me," said Tom," my kind Sir, I'd advise you,`To see my new curricle, which will surprise you! A carriage more elegant never was known, T will charm all the town, Sir! the plan is my own; The snakes and the cocks make such beautiful show; My crest is a cock-while I live I will crow "A cock!" said the Quaker, "you certainly jest; A cock's-comb would be the most suitable crest."

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B. C.


[From the Morning Herald.]

NO. 79. Portrait of Walter Scott, Esq. author of the Lay of the Last Minstrel, Marmion, &c.; by H. Raeburn.

The motto.

Go, gentle reader, to the EXHIBITION, if thou hast not been there already, to regard this portrait. It is the effigy of the poetical and renowned sheriff of Selkirkshire, and the tulip of Paternoster Row. Lo! the bard sits complacently upon the rocks of Parnassus (for it is an ungenial region, that never yet yielded either cabbage, or carrots, or brocoli, or potatoes, or Scotch kail, to its famished occupiers) looking disdainfully upon the rational mob in the low vale of industry! The small speck that may be seen as glinmering through the ether, is Mistress Luna, who is breathing her divine influence upon the sensorium!

The little agent with the quizzing-glass, who is couchant in the corner, is the illustrious Monk ***** a wholesale dealer in the marvellous also, and who doth not disdain (to use a modish apology for arro



gance) to steal the skeleton of a thought from other men; as he is now in the commission of a literary misdemeanour, and filching a young Marmion in MS. from the breeches pocket of his too thoughtless associate!

The hole which the wizzard is digging in the back ground, is meant for the Inferiæ, or sacrifices to the Di manes, or seuls of deceased heroes, such as Jack the Giant Killer, Mr. Thomas Hickathrift, &c. &c.

Hark! the "Comet of Caledonia" is now chanting in confident importance, while a brace of old nurses are brushing away the gnats and musquitoes of criticism from his radiant head-By the inass, he is now pouring forth an invocation to the present mistress of his affections!-Ecoutez, mon ami.

SAY, Blowzabella, whither art thou roaming,
Or by Loch Lomond's verge, or Tay's green side;
Thy ample, golden, matted ringlets combing,

Or laving in the Clyde's pellucid tide?
Or gathering cockle-shells to deck the grot,
Where I and thou, at e'en, may pig together;
Darning thy tartan manteau, or what not,

To shield thy matchless beauties from the weather?
Ah then, for my dear sake,

Sweet, if you love me, come away,

And let us play
Upon this brae,

Dear Lady of the Lake.

I've trac'd, in my mind's eye, a water king;
Walk, with a succubus, towards a bower!
Then I heard generated monsters sing,

As Wonder blew the horn from Terror's tower!
If thou shouldst see a goblin in the dale,

Or fay, or elfin, or whate'er you call 'em; Seize them for me, I'll make them all find bail, Or else, as sheriff, by the Lord I'll maul 'em! Ab! then, &c. **


I saw

I saw a ghost, last night, of muckle state,


Stumbling, as though it were of John Bell's ale full! And, ever and anon, it scratch'd its pate!

And then it wept, I'm sure it blear'd a pail full. It look'd aw pale and wan, like Sandy Wright,

Who came from Walcheren with laurell'd Chatham,
And when the filthy kine annoy'd the sprite,

It scoop'd the faces up, and threw them at 'em!
Ah! then, for my dear sake,
Sweet, if you love me, come away,
And let us play
Upon this brae,
Dear Lady of the Lake.

"A royal house for Master Nap
We might agree to build, maybap,
But for this one objection;,
That for his daddy first we'd rear
(To lodge him snug and safely there,)
A strong House of Correction!"

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[From the same, June 4 ]


write from Paris, that the first stone of a magnificent palace is laying for the royal residence of young Nap; but that probably before the builders have accomplished their work, his tyrannic sire may be compelled to find out à more humble residence for his illustrious race! A pasquinade on this occasion was placed on one of the Venetian horse's tails at the Tuilleries, which is thus translated:



[From the Morning Post, June 5.]

WHEN Dr. Last the tooth-uch was to cure,

He said his remedy was safe and sure. "What is it?" said the learn'd of Warwick Lane; "I pull all out, though only one gives pain."


Well answer'd, Doctor," said the sapient College; "That cure is radical, and shows your knowledge." Just so, by forceps of a revolution,

Some are for curing Britain's Constitution.
So Fawkes intended, when, with fiery Brand,
He went to kill the Magnates of the land;
And there is still a B-d, likewise a F-
Who think such cures are very pretty jokes ;
Who only wanted (to display their skills)
Guildhall, for warehousing combustibles.
Then they'd have come, in thunder and in storm,
And blown up all—a radical Reform!


[From the same, June 11.]


EPULS'D in the city, our patriots seek

The Free Masons' Tavern, to gorge and to speak. Their madmen assemble to plan revolution, And prate about mending the State's Constitution. But in vain will the rogues information seek there, Who, nor keep within compass, nor deal on the square. To honours masonic, all claims must resign, Though each may, ere long, be rais'd high in his line. Who can hope that a fabric like that Britons boast Will e'er be excell'd by this hot-headed host? Let each mind his business, who fain would do good, And re-form his own house, shop, or warehouse, with Wood.



[From the same, June 13]

ONCE, 'tis said, perhaps 't is true,
Brutes could talk as well as you;
But that, often interfering
About concerns they had no care in,
Jove, to punish such rank treason,
Took away their speech and reason.


Since then a few have learnt a smattering,"
And scarcely ever cease from chattering;
Though, after all, the sole pretence is
To bother man out of his senses,
Just as parrots speak by rote,
Repeating over the same note;
In blustering language, loud and warm,
Bellowing out "Reform! reform !!

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A few of the most discontented,
Great Britain's envied state repented ; ·¦°
And grumbled much, both soon and late,
They govern'd not the helm of State.
All o'er the country soon was sent
The cry
"Reform in Parliament !"
And ev'ry brute was then invited,
In "the great cause" to be united.
In London next they fix'd a meeting,
As well for speaking as for eating;
For, be sure, these hungry beasts
Had never much dislike to feasts;
Yet, e'en among the brutes were some,
Who, though invited, would not come;
And, after all, so scant and thrifty,
They muster'd little more than fifty.


Of these, most sure to find a place,
Half were of the long-ear'd race,
Some were hogs in Hampshire bred,
Others Essex culves 't is said;
A few were geese, graz'd on the Downs-hill,
And plenty from the Common Council;
And where geese are, I do insist on 't,,
Foxes will not be far distant.

The conclave met, the chair is taken,
By one designed to hang-for bacon;
And then began a long debate
About abuses in the State;


Of selling places, giving pensions,
To which they all declar'd pretensions.
The Foxes' knowledge was most thorough
Upon the score of rotten borough;

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