Oh, had it pleased the gout to take
The reverend Croly from the stage,
Or Southey, for our quiet's sake,

Or Mr. Fletcher, Cupid's sage,
Or, damme! namby pamby Poole—
Or any other clown or fool!

Go, Dibdin-all that bear the name,
Go Byway Highway man! go! go!
Go, Skeffy-man of painted fame,
But leave thy partner, painted Joe!
I could bear Kirby on the wane,
Or Signor Paulo with a sprain!

Had Joseph Wilfred Parkins made

His gray hairs.scarce in private peace— Had Waithman sought a rural shade— Or Cobbett ta'en a turnpike leaseOr Lisle Bowles gone to Balaam Hill— I think I could be cheerful still!

Had Medwin left off, to his praise,

Dead lion kicking, like--a friend!— Had long, long Irving gone his ways, To muse on death at Ponder's End

Or Lady Morgan taken leave

Of Letters-still I might not grieve!

But, Joseph-every body's Jo!—

Is gone and grieve I will and must! As Hamlet did for Yorick, so

Will I for thee, (tho' not yet dust,) And talk as he did when he missed The kissing-crust that he had kissed!

Ah, where is now thy rolling head! Thy winking, reeling, drunken eyes, (As old Catullus would have said,)

Thy oven-mouth, that swallowed pies
Enormous hunger-monstrous drouth!
Thy pockets greedy as thy mouth!

Ah, where thy ears, so often cuffed!-
Thy funny, flapping, filching hands !—
Thy partridge body, always stuffed

With waifs, and strays, and contrabands !—
Thy foot-like Berkeley's Foote-for why?
"T was often made to wipe an eye!

Ah, where thy legs-that witty pair

For "great wits jump" and so did they.
Lord! how they leaped in lamp-light air!
Capered-and bounced-and strode away!-
That years should tame the legs-alack!
I've seen spring thro' an Almanack!

But bounds will have their bound-the shocks
Of Time will cramp the nimblest toes;
And those that frisked in silken clocks
May look to limp in fleecy hose-
One only―(Champion of the ring)
Could ever make his Winter-Spring!

And gout, that owns no odds between
The toe of Czar and toe of Clown,
Will visit but I did not mean

To moralize, though I am grown
Thus sad-Thy going seemed to beat
A muffled drum for Fun's retreat!

And, may be 'tis no time to smother
A sigh, when two prime wags of London,
Are gone-thou, Joseph, one-the other
A Joe!"sic transit gloria Munden!"
A third departure some insist on-
Stage-apoplexy threatens Liston !—

Nay, then, let Sleeping Beauty sleep
With ancient "Dozey" to the dregs-
Let Mother Goose wear mourning deep,
And put a hatchment o'er her eggs!
Let Farley weep-for Magic's man
Is gone-his Christmas Caliban!

Let Kemble, Forbes, and Willet rain,
As tho' they walked behind thy bier-
For since thou wilt not play again,
What matters-if in heaven or here!
Or in thy grave, or in thy bed!-
There's Quick, might just as well be dead!

Oh, how will thy departure cloud
The lamp-light of the little breast!
The Christmas child will grieve aloud
To miss his broadest friend and best—
Poor urchin! what avails to him

The cold New Monthly's Ghost of Grimm

For who like thee could ever stride
Some dozen paces to the mile!
The motley, medley coach provide—
Or like Joe Frankenstein compile
The vegetable man complete!-
proper Covent Garden feat!

A

Oh, who like thee could ever drink,

Or eat-swill-swallow-bolt-and choke! Nod, weep, and hiccup-sneeze and wink?— Thy very yawn was quite a joke! Tho' Joseph Junior acts not ill,

"There's no Fool like the old Fool" still!

Joseph, farewell! dear funny Joe!

We met with mirth-we part in pain!
For many a long, long year must go,
Ere Fun can see thy like again—
For Nature does not keep great stores
Of perfect Clowns-that are not Boors!

ADDRESS

TO SYLVANUS URBAN, ESQUIRE,"

EDITOR OF THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.

"Dost thou not suspect my years?"

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

OH! Mr. Urban! never must thou lurch

A sober age made serious drunk by thee; Hop in thy pleasant way from church to church, And nurse thy little bald Biography.

Oh, my Sylvanus! what a heart is thine!

And what a page attends thee! Long may

Hang in demure confusion o'er each line

That asks thy little questions with a sigh!

Old tottering years have nodded to their falls,
Like pensioners that creep about and die ;—
But thou, Old Parr of periodicals,

Livest in monthly immortality!

How sweet!-as Byron of his infant said—

I

Knowledge of objects" in thine eye to trace; To see the mild no-meanings of thy head,

Taking a quiet nap upon thy face!

How dear through thy Obituary to roam,
And not a name of any name to catch!

To meet thy Criticism walking home,

Averse from rows, and never calling "Watch!"