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And might indeed have claimed akin to that,
Coming, as he did, of an old black stock.

Case wore the liver's livery that such
Must wear, their past excesses to denote,
Like Greenwich pensioners that take too much,
And then do penance in a yellow coat.
Pompey's, a deep and permanent jet dye,
A stain of nature's staining - one of those
We call fast colours — merely, I suppose,
Because such colours never go or fly.

Pray mark this difference of dark and sallow, Pompey's black husk, and the old Colonel's yellow.

The Colonel, once a pennyless beginner,
From a long Indian rubber rose a winner,
With plenty of pagodas in his pocket,
And homeward turning his Hibernian thought,
Deemed Wicklow was the very place that ought
To harbour one whose wick was in the socket.

Unhappily for Case's scheme of quiet,
Wicklow just then was in a pretty riot,
A fact recorded in each day's diurnals,
Things, Case was not accustomed to peruse,

Careless of news ;
But Pompey always read these bloody journals,
Full of Killmany and of Killmore work,
The freaks of some O'Shaunessy's shillaly,

Of morning frays by some O'Brien Burke,
Or horrid nightly outrage by some Daly ;
How scums deserving of the Devil's ladle,
Would fall upon the harmless scull and knock it,
And if he found an infant in the cradle
Stern Rock would hardly hesitate to rock it; —
In fact, he read of burner and of killer,
And Irish ravages, day after day,
Till, haunting in his dreams, he used to say,
That “ Pompey could not sleep on Pompey's Pil-

lar."

Judge then the horror of the nigger's face
To find — with such impressions of that dire

land — • That Case, — his master, — was a packing case

For Ireland ! He saw in fearful reveries arise, Phantasmagorias of those dreadful men Whose fame associate with Irish plots is, Fitzgeralds — Tones — O'Connors — Hares —

and then “ Those Emmets,not so “ little in his eyes” As Doctor Watts’s !

[hacked, He felt himself piked, roasted, — carved and His big black burly body seemed in fact A pincushion for Terror's pins and needles, — Oh, how he wished himself beneath the sun Of Afric - or in far Barbadoes - one Of Bishop Coleridge's new black beadles.

Full of this fright, With broken peace and broken English choking, As black as any raven and as croaking, Pompey rushed in upon his master's sight, Plumped on his knees, and clasped his sable

Plut igits,

Curios.esa!

Thus stirring Curiosity's sharp fidgets —
“O Massa ! — Massa ! - Colonel ! — Massa

Case. —
Not go to Ireland ! — Ireland dam bad place;
Dem take our bloods — dem Irish — every

drop — Oh why for Massa go so far a distance To have him life ?” — Here Pompey made a

stop, Putting an awful period to existence.

“ Not go to Ireland — not to Ireland, fellow, And murdered - why should I be murdered,

Sirrah ? " Cried Case, with anger's tinge upon his yellow,Pompey, for answer, pointing in a mirror The Colonel's saffron, and his own japan,“ Well, what has that to do — quick — speak out

right, boy? “O Massa” – (so the explanation ran) “ Massa be killed — 'cause Massa Orange Man, And Pompey killed — 'cause Pompey not a White

Boy!

THE CARELESSE NURSE MAYD.

I SAWE a Mayd sitte on a Bank,
Beguiled by Wooer fayne and fond ;
And whiles His flatterynge Vowes She drank,
Her Nurselynge slipt within a Pond !

All Even Tide they Talkde and Kist,
For She was fayre and He was Kinde;
The Sunne went down before She wist
Another Sonne had sett behinde !

With angrie Hands and frownynge Browe,
That deemd Her owne the Urchine's Sinne,
She pluckt Him out, but he was nowe
Past being Whipt for fallynge in.

She then beginnes to wayle the Ladde
With Shrikes that Echo answered round-
O! foolishe Mayd to be soe sadde
The Momente that her Care was drownd!

TO FANNY.

“ Gay being, born to flutter!” – SALE'S GLEE.

Is this your faith, then, Fanny !

What, to chat with every Dun! I'm the one, then, but of many,

Not of many, but the One !

Last night you smiled on all, Ma'am,

That appeared in scarlet dress ; And your Regimental Ball, Ma'am,

Looked a little like a Mess.

I thought that of the Sogers

(As the Scotch say) one might do, And that I, slight Ensign Rogers,

Was the chosen man and true.

But ’Sblood ! your eye was busy

With that ragamuffin mob; — Colonel Buddell — Colonel Dizzy

And Lieutenant-Colonel Cobb.

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