We expect too at least we've been plotting and planning-
To get that great actor from Liverpool, C-nn-ng;
And, as at the circus there's nothing attracts
Like a good single combat brought in 'twixt the acts,
If the Manager should, with the help of Sir P-ph-m,
Get up new diversions, and C-nn-ng should stop 'em,
Who knows but we'll have to announce in the papers,
"Grand fight-second time-with additional capers."
Be your taste for the ludicrous, humdrum, or sad,
There is plenty of each in this House to be had;
Where our Manager ruleth, there weeping will be,
For a dead hand at tragedy always was he;
And there never was dealer in dagger and cup,
Who so smilingly got all his tragedies up.
His powers poor Ireland will never forget,
And the widows of Walcheren weep o'er them yet.
So much for the actors-for secret machinery,
Traps, and deceptions, and shifting of scenery,
Y-rm-th and Cum are the best we can find,
To transact all that trickery business behind.
The former's employ'd too to teach us French jigs,
Keep the whiskers in curl, and look after the wigs.
In taking my leave now, I've only to say
A few seats in the House, not as yet sold away,
May be had of the Manager, Pat C-stl―r-gh.
THE SALE OF THE TOOLS.
"Instrumenta regni."-Tacitus.
HERE'S a choice set of Tools for you, Ge'mmen and Ladies, They'll fit you quite handy, whatever your trade is (Except it be Cabinet-making-I doubt
In that delicate service they're rather worn out;
Though their owner, bright youth! if he'd had his own will
Would have bungled away with them joyously still);
You can see they've been pretty well hack'd-and alack!
What tool is there job after job will not hack?
Their edge is but dullish, it must be confess'd,
And their temper, like Ell-nb'r-h's, none of the best,
But you'll find them good hard-working Tools, upon trying,
Wer't but for their brass, they are well worth the buying;
They're famous for making blinds, sliders, and screens,
And they're, some of them, excellent turning machines!
M.P., OR THE BLUE STOCKING.
M.P., OR THE BLUE STOCKING
YOUNG Love liv'd once in an humble slied,
Where roses breathing,
And woodbines wreathing
Around the lattice their tendrils spread,
As wild and sweet as the life he led.
His garden flourish'd,
For young Hope nourish'd
The infant buds with beams and showers; But lips, though blooming, must still be fed, And not even Love can live on flowers
Alas! that Poverty's evil eye
Should e'er come hither,
Such sweets to wither!
The flowers laid down their heads to die,
And Hope fell sick as the witch drew nigh.
She came one morning,
Ere Love had warning,
And rais'd the latch, where the young god lay; "Oh ho!" said Love-" is it you? good-by;" So he ope'd the window, and flew away!
To sigh, yet feel no pain,
To weep, yet scarce know why;
To sport an hour with Beauty's chain,
Then throw it idly by.
|