Shall often come and walk your short
Two-shilling fare upon the stones-
Ye have that talisman of Wealth

Which puddling chemists sought of old
Till ruin'd out of hope and health—

The Tomb's the stone that turns to gold!

Oh, licensed cannibals, ye eat

Your dinners from your own dead race,
Think Gray, preserved-a “funeral meat,"
And Dryden, devil'd-after grace,
A relish ;-and you take your meal
From Rare Ben Jonson underdone,
Or, whet your holy knives on Steele,
To cut away at Addison!

Oh say, of all this famous age,

Whose learned bones your hopes expect,
Oh have ye number'd Rydal's sage,

Or Moore among your Ghosts elect?
Lord Byron was not doom'd to make
You richer by his final sleep-
Why don't ye warn the Great to take
Their ashes to no other heap!

Southey's reversion have ye got?

With Coleridge, for his body, made
A bargain?-has Sir Walter Scott,
Like Peter Schlemihi, sold his shade?

Has Rogers haggled hard, or sold
His features for your marble shows,
Or Campbell barter'd ere he's cold,
All interest in his "bone repose?"

Rare is your show, ye righteous men !
Priestly Politos, -rare, I ween;

But should ye not outside the Den

Paint up what in it may be seen?

"Since this poem was written, Doctor Ireland and those in authority under him have reduced the fares. It is gratifying to the English people to know that while batcher's meat is rising tombs are falling."-Vote in Third Edition.

C.

A long green Shakspeare, with a deer

Grasp'd in the many folds it died in,—
A Butler stuff'd from ear to ear,

Wet White Bears weeping o'er a Dryden!

Paint Garrick up like Mr. Paap,
A Giant of some inches high;
Paint Handel up, that organ chap,
With you, as grinders, in his eye;
Depict some plaintive antique thing,
And say th' original may be seen ;-
Blind Milton with a dog and string
May be the Beggar o' Bethnal Green!

Put up in Poet's Corner, near

The little door, a platform small;

Get there a monkey-never fear,

You'll catch the gapers, one and all !

Stand each of ye a Body Guard,

A Trumpet under either fin,

And yell away in Palace Yard

"All dead! All dead! Walk in! Walk in!"

(But when the people are inside,

Their money paid-I pray you, bid

The keepers not to mount and ride

A race around each coffin lid.-
Poor Mrs. Bodkin thought, last year,
That it was hard-the woman clacks-
To have so little in her ear-

And be so hurried through the Wax !--)
"Walk in! two shillings only! come!
Be not by country grumblers funk'd !--
Walk in, and see th' illustrious dumb,
The Cheapest House for the defunct!"
Write up, 'twill breed some just reflection,
And every rude surmise 'twill stop-
Write up, that you have no connection
(In large)—with any other shop!

And still, to catch the Clowns the more,
With samples of your shows in Wax,

Set some old Harry near the door

To answer queries with his axe.— Put up some general begging-trunk— Since the last broke by some mishap, You've all a bit of General Monk, From the respect you bore his Cap!

ON AN UNFAVOURABLE REVIEW.

"I'll give him dash for dash."

ERDAN, farewell! farewell to all
Who ever praised me, great or small
Your poet's course is run!

A weekly-no, an every-day
Reviewer takes my fame away,

And I am all undone !

I cannot live an author long!
When I did write, O I did wrong

To aim at being great;

A Diamond Poet in a pin

May twinkle on in peace, and win
No diamond critic's hate!

No small inditer of reviews
Will analyse his tiny muse,

Or lay his sonnets waste;

Who strives to prove that Richardson,
That calls himself a diamond one,
Is but a bard of paste?

The smallest bird that wings the sky
May tempt some sparrow shot, and die;
But midges still go free!

The peace that shuns my board and bed
May settle on a lowlier head,

And dwell, "St. John, with thee!"

I aimed at higher growth; and now
My leaves are withered on the bough,

I'm choked by bitter shrubs!
O Mr. F. C. W.!

What can I christen thy review

But one of "Wormwood Scrubs ?"

The very man that sought me once-
(Can I so soon be grown a dunce ?)
He now derides my verse;
But who, save me, will fret to find
The editor has changed his mind,—
He can't have got a worse.

TO PEACE.

WRITTEN ON THE NIGHT OF MY MISTRESS'S GRAND ROUT.

H Peace! oh come with me and dwell

But stop, for there's the bell.

Oh Peace! for thee I go and sit in churches,
On Wednesday, when there's very few

In loft or pew

Another ring, the tarts are come from Birch's.
Oh Peace! for thee I have avoided marriage-
Hush! there's a carriage.

Oh Peace! thou art the best of earthly goods-
The five Miss Woods.

Oh Peace! thou art the Goddess I adore

There come some more.

Oh Peace! thou child of solitude and quiet-
That's Lord Drum's footman, for he loves a riot.

Oh Peace!

Knocks will not cease.

Oh Peace! thou wert for human comfort plann'd—

That's Weippert's band.

Oh Peace! now glad I welcome thy approaches

I hear the sound of coaches.

Oh Peace! oh Peace!-another carriage stops-
It's early for the Blenkinsops.

Oh Peace! with thee I love to wander,

But wait till I have show'd up Lady Squander,
And now I've seen her up the stair,

Oh Peace-but here comes Captain Hare.
Oh Peace! thou art the slumber of the mind,
Untroubled, calm and quiet, and unbroken,-
If that is Alderman Guzzle from Portsoken,
Alderman Gobble won't be far behind;
Oh Peace! serene in worldly shyness,-
Make way there for his Serene Highness!

Oh Peace! if you do not disdain
To dwell amongst the menial train,
I have a silent place, and lone,
That you and I may call our own;
Where tumult never makes an entry-
Susan, what business have you in my pantry?

Oh Peace! but there is Major Monk,
At variance with his wife-Oh Peace!
And that great German, Vander Trunk,
And that great talker, Miss Apreece;
Oh Peace! so dear to poets' quills-
They're just beginning their quadrilles-
Oh Peace! our greatest renovator;-
I wonder where I put my waiter-
Oh Peace-but here my Ode I'll cease;
I have no peace to write of Peace.

FOR THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER.

LUD! O Lud! O Lud!

I mean of course that venerable town,
Mention'd in stories of renown,

Built formerly of mud;

O Lud, I say, why didst thou e'er

Invent the office of a Mayor,

An office that no useful purpose crowns,
But to set Aldermen against each other,