"No more let's see each office man on
Foot, about the hour of seven,
Teazing Arbuthnot and Duncannon,
To find a pair until eleven.

"No more let's hear Sir George or Binning,
Or Huskisson, or Wellesley Pole,
Hinting, in sounds so soft and winning,
That soup and fish are apt to cool.

"Let Michael spread, in Privy-Gardens,
The board for Fergusson and Co.;
Let Sefton's cook exhaust his lardings;
They but allure away the foe.

"But some there are who never dine,

(Who ne'er are asked to dine, at least,)

Who swallow Ayles's tea like wine,
And reckon Bellamy's a feast.

"They can abjure risolles and patés,

And we must imitate their powers; Besides, they keep their vigils gratis; We are paid for keeping ours.

"But, Placemen! if ye heed my summons,
A mental feast I shall prepare;
Our House shall truly be, of Commons,
And Rickman's roll a bill of fare.

"Ley spreads upon the spacious table
A cloth (no matter what its hue,)

The chaplain, fast as he is able,
Says grace, and bids us all fall to.

"Without four soups, I should be loth
Such splendid guests to entertain;
So Weston shall be Barley-broth,
And Wood a Potage à la Reine!

"Mullicatawny, or Scotch porridge,
Either, Mackintosh may be ;
And-(not his merits to disparage,)
Spring Rice is Printanier au ris.

"For fish-that bench the Speaker's left on Out-rivals Groves', to all beholders;

No one can see my good Lord S-n

But thinks of a cod's head and shoulders!

"B-m's crooked shifts, and talents boasted, His slippery tricks no more conceal : Dragg'd into light, cut up, and roasted, What is he but spitch-cock'd Eel !

"For the rest, as housewives tell us,
How they serve their broken trash-
Wilson, Bernal, Moore, and Ellice,
Make an economic Hash!

"Come, then, hungry friends, fall to 't,

And, if patiently ye dine,

Kind Liverpool shall find ye fruit,

And jovial Bathurst choose your wine !”

DISAPPOINTMENT.

YE, Aldermen! list to my lay-
Oh, list, ere your bumpers ye fill-
Her Majesty's dead!-lack-a-day!
She remember'd me not in her will.
Oh, folly oh, baneful ill-luck!

That I ever to court her begun ;

She was Queen, and I could not but suck— But she died, and poor Matty's undone !

Perhaps I was void of all thought,
Perhaps it was plain to foresee,
That a Queen so complete would be sought
By a courtier more knowing than me.
But self-love each hope can inspire,
It banishes wisdom the while;
And I thought she would surely admire
My countenance, whiskers, and smile.

She is dead though, and I am undone !
Ye that witness the woes I endure,
Oh let me instruct you to shun

What I cannot instruct you to cure:
Beware how you loiter in vain
Amid nymphs of a higher degree;

It is not for me to explain

How fair and how fickle they be.

Alas that her lawyers e'er met,

They alone were the cause of my woes;

Their tricks I can never forget

Those lawyers undid my repose.

Yet the Times may diminish my pain,

If the Statesman and Traveller agree—
Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain—

Yes, the Times shall have comfort for me.

Mrs. W-d, ope your doors then apace;
To your deepest recesses I fly;
I must hide my poor woe-begone face,
I must vanish from every eye.
But my sad, my deplorable lay,

My reed shall resound with it still:-
How her Majesty died t'other day,
And remembered me not in her will.

IRISH MELODIES.

Having been frequently put to the blush by hearing very modest young ladies, without a blush (from their ignorance, no doubt), warbling forth the amatory effusions of Mr. Thomas Moore, I have been induced to purify some of the especial favourites of his muse from their grossness, and to convey, through the medium of his exquisite melodies, a moral which, I fear, was not intended by the poet. The following specimens, as will be seen, are wholly divested of licentiousness, and are converted into means of contributing to the harmless amusement of a party, whose morality is at all times as conspicuous as their patriotism.-JOHN BULL.

FLY NOT YET.

FLY not yet, 'tis just the hour

When treason, like the midnight flower,
That dreads detection and the light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,

And damsels of the moon.

'Twas but to bless these hours of shade
That W- -n and the moon were made:
'Tis then the torch of faction glowing,

Sets the Draper's tongue a going!
Oh, stay!-oh, stay!

Wilson, flush with Whig arrears,
No credit asks-but oh he swears
He will not quit us soon.

Fly not yet-the hoax was play'd,
In times of old through Cock-lane shade,
Though snug in covert all the day,
(Like friends of ours) it rose to play,

And scratch when night was near.
And thus should patriots' hearts and looks
At noon be dark as Cockney Brooks!
Nor venture out, 'till nightly sotting
Brings the genial hour for plotting!
Oh, stay!-oh, stay!

When did H-ever speak,
And find so many eyes awake

As those that twinkle here!