Their heartless ribaldry

Was cherished then of many;
But now what jokes they try,

Are not approved by any:
Unchristian hearts wax cold,

Disloyal tongues be few,
This was not in time of old, -
When this Old Book was new.

Where'er you travell’d then,

In buggy, gig, or shay,
Young women and young men,

Went laughing on their way,
Bestowing much

Upon this Whig Review,
No Quarterly there was
When this Old Book was new.

All men on quarter-day,

To Constable's then went,
And gladly came away

When they their cash had spent,
On that which now they scorn,

The Yellow and the Blue,
For Blackwood was unborn-
When this Old Book was new,

A man might then behold

Blue Stockings, great and small;
Who worthy men would scold,

And excellent wits miscall,
If only they were bidden

By the Yellow and the Blue,
The Quacks from the gates were not chidden-

When this Old Book was new.

Now pride hath banish'd all,

Unto our land's reproach,
When he whose means are small,

Maintains both horse and coach :
Instead of a hundred men,

The coach allows but two; This was not thought on then,

When this old cap was new.

And gave

Good hospitality

Was cherish'd then of many ; Now poor men starve and die,

And are not help'd by any : For charity waxeth cold,

And love is found in few; This was not in time of old, When this old cap was new.

5. Wherever you travell'd then,

You might meet on the way Brave knights and gentlemen,

Clad in their country grey, That courteous would appear,

And kindly welcome you ; No puritans then were,

When this old cap was new.

Our ladies, in those days,

In civil habit went ;
Broad-cloth was then worth praise,

the best content:
French fashions then were scorn'd:

Fond fangles then none knew ;
Then modesty women adorn'd,
When this old cap was new.

A man might then behold

At Christmas, in each hall,
Good fires to curb the cold,

And meat for great and small :
The neighbours were friendly bidden,

And all had welcome true ;
The poor from the gates were not chidden,
When this old cap was new.

Black jacks to every man

Were fill'd with wine and beer,
No pewter pot, nor can,

In those days did appear :
Good cheer in a nobleman's house

Was counted a seemly shew,
We wanted no brawn nor souse,

When this old cup was new.

Sly jokes against the Bible,

Cost godless Priests no fear; Good George our King to libel,

Was pastime for a PEER ;Tom Paine, and Pindar's Louse,

Lay close by the Buff and the Blue In many a Jacobin's house

When this Old Book was new.

Buonaparte had delight

To hear these puppets fine,
Who said 'twas vain to fight

Against his star divine;
He German, Turk, and Russ,

Had beat-what could we do?
He had not met with us

When this Old Book was new.

10. When Wellington arose,

Their jaw they did not slack, But magnified his foes,

And said he'd ne'er come back. His victories they mourn'd,

Thank God they were not few ! Such manhood Whigs adorn'd,

When this Old Book was new.

11. But far o'er Faction's smoke

Soon rose our hero's star, His British heart of oak

Roll'd back the tide of war.
When their darling was squabash'd

At glorious Waterloo,
Old teeth full sore they gnash'd,

Old SHEETS made room for new.

9. We took no such delight

In cups of silver fine,
None under the degree of a knight

In plate drunk beer or wine :
Now each mechanical man

Hath a cupboard of plate for a shew, Which was a rare thing then, When this old cap was new.

10. Then bribery was unborn,

No simony men did use ; Christians did usury scorn

Devised among the Jews : The lawyers to be feed,

At that time hardly knew For man with man agreed,

When this old cap was new.

11. No captain then carous'd,

Nor spent poor soldiers' pay, They were not so abus'd

As they are at this day; Of seven days they make eight,

To keep them from their due ; Poor soldiers had their right, When this old cap was new.

12. Which made them forward still

To go, although not prest; And going with good will,

Their fortunes were the best : Our English then, in fight,

Did foreign foes subdue ; And forced them all to flight,

When this old cap was new.


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First Port, that potation, preferr'd by our nation

To all the small drink of the French;
'Tis the best standing liquor, for layman or vicar,

The army, the navy, the bench;
"Tis strong and substantial, believe me, no man shall

Good Port from my dining-room send;
In your soup—after cheese-every way-it will please,

But most tête-a-tête with a friend.

Fair Sherry, Port's sister, for years they dismiss'd her

To the kitchen to flavour the jellies -
There long she was banish’d, and well nigh had vanish'd

To comfort the kitchen-maids' bellies-
Till his Majesty fixt, he thought Sherry when sixty

Years old, like himself, quite the thing-
So I think it but proper, to fill a tip-topper

Of Sherry to drink to the King.


God save our gracious King,

And send him long to live!
Lord ! mischiet on them bring,

That will not their almıs give,
But seek to rob the poor

Of that which is their due :
This was not in time of yore,

When this old cap was new.

· Though your delicate Claret by no means goes far, it

Is famed for its exquisite flavour;
'Tis a nice provocation, to wise conversation,

Queer blarney, or harmless palaver ;
'Tis the bond of society-no inebriety

Follows a swig of the Blue;
One may drink a whole ocean, nor e'er feel commotion,
Or headache from Chateau Margoux.

But though Claret is pleasant, to taste for the present,

On the stomach it sometimes feels cold;
So to keep it all clever, and comfort your liver,

Take a glass of Madeira that's old:
When 't has sail'd to the Indies, a cure for all wind 'tis,

And cholic 'twill put to the rout;
All doctors declare, a good glass of Madeira,
The best of all things for the gout.

Then Champagne ! dear Champagne ! ah ! how gladly I drain a

Whole bottle of Oeil de Perdrix ;
To the eye of my charmer, to make my love warmer,

If cool that love ever could be,
I could toast her for ever-But never, oh! never,

Would I her dear name so profane ;
So if e'er when I'm tipsy, it slips to my lips, I.

Wash it back to my heart with Champagne !

LORD BYRON'S THREE NEW TRAGEDIES.* Upon the whole, we imagine this It would be highly ridiculous to enwill be reckoned rather a heavy vo- ter, at this time of day, into any thing lume; and certainly it could not sell like a formal review, here, of Lord the better for coming out on the same Byron's new volume. We have not day with the Pirate. Mr Murray and happened to meet with any two indiMr Constable should understand each viduals who expressed two different other a little better, and each would opinions about it and its contents. serve his own interest, by not being There is a great deal of power in Sartoo anxious to interfere with the inte danapālus: [the Sardanapălus of Darest of his rival. It is bad policy to vid Lyndsay is weighed in the babring out the Edinburgh-the dull, lance, and found wanting, when comstupid, superannuated, havering Edin- pared with it] but as a play, it is an burgh-and the Quarterly—the cold, utter failure; and, in God's name, why well-informed, heartless, witless, pro- call a thing a tragedy, unless it be sing, pedantic Quarterly—both in the ineant to be a play? What would same week. And although we should people say to a new song of Tom be very sorry to compare the two first Moore's, prefaced with an earnest inwriters of their time with such folks as junction on man, woman, and child, the “clever old body" and the “sour never to think of singing it? A tralittle gentleman,” we cannot help say- gedy, not meant to be acted, seems to ing, that Lord Byron and the Author us to be just about as reasonable an of Warerley might quite as well choose affair as a song not meant to be sung. different months for favouring the pub- But even as a poem, Sardanapalus is not lic with their visits—which are rather quite worthy of its author. Let any one more pleasant, to be sure, but quite as just think, for a moment, of the mag, regular and as expensive as if they nificent story of Sardanapalus, and were two tax-gatherers.

then imagine what a thing Lord By

Sardanapalus, a Tragedy ; The Two Foscari, a Tragedy ; and Cain, a Mystery. By Lord Byron. 8vo. London, Murray, 1822.

ton might have made of it, had he “ ITALY, BY LADY MORGAN," which chosen the fiery narrative-pace of Lara, Lord Byron has the impudence to puff. or the Giaour-instead of this lumberé Lord Byron knows that we are hoing, and lax, and highly undramatic nest, and speak the truth, when we say blank-verse dialogue. —The Foscari is all this; and, indeed, there is but one totally inferior to the Sardanapalus. It human creature in the world who will is a ridiculous caricature of some his- think differently. torical situations, in themselves beau- Lord Byron is a very excellent hand tiful and interesting. The true trage- át a joke; but let him take care ; he dy of the Foscari is to be read in the may perhaps go a little too far some notes at the end of Lord Byron's tra- day. Indeed, he has done so already. gedy bearing that name ; and the Does he wish to add much to the list publie is much obliged to him, and so of those escapades of his, which he is is M. Simonde de Sismondi, for these destined to repent in sorrow and bitvery pretty extracts. Caix contains, terness till the day of his death? perhaps, five or six passages of as fine The puff direct in honour of Miladi; poetry as Lord Byron ever wrote or is followed by a little side puff, in the will write ; but, taken altogether, it is shape of an acknowledgment of her a wicked and blasphemous perform- ladyship’s having called Venice “ the ance, destitute of any merit sufficient Ocean-Rome," without communicato overshadow essential defects of the tion with his lorilship, who also, about most abominable nature. The three the same time, chose to call Venice by plays, bound up together, we repeat, the same appropriate title. If Lord constitute a dullish volume perhaps Byron and Lady Morgan will have one of the heaviest that has appeared the goodness to turn over a few pages in the poetical world since the days of of Bembo, or any other member of the Ricciarda, Tragedia."

great Venetian Corpus Historicum, we Now, we have no right to abuse venture to lay a rump and dozen they Lord Byron, or any other man, for will fall in with the same phrase, raa publishing a dullish volume in octavo, ther more frequently than they could price fifteen shillings boards : but we wish; but they need not look so far. have a right to speak a little of our They will find the thing in Gibbon at mind to him in regard to certain prose least a dozen times! The idea occurs also notes, the mean malignity and rancour in Schiller's Ghost-seer-in Mrs Rada of which were probably intended to cliffe—in Rose's Letters-in Reichardt's set off, in some measure, the leaden “ Pocket Companion through Italy" volume of blank verse in which they -and in various other works which make their incongruous and absurd ap- we could mention, if it were worth pearance. What we have to say, how- while to be at all particular about a ever, shall be at least said very short- thing perfectly notorious, and at the ly and we shall just confine ourselves same time perfectly unimportant. We to two heads.

despise the ninnies who chatter about And first in relation to LADY MOB- Lord Byron and plagiarism in the same Gax. Lord Byron calls her Italy “an breath; but Lord Byron must be kind excellent and fearless work.” This is enough to keep his quizzing humour dishonest; nobody can be taken in by in a more decent measure of control. it. Lady Morgan's Italy is not an Our second remark is called forth by English work at all—it is a piece a very venomous attack on Mr Southof fliresy Irish slip-slop, altogether ey, which appears in one of the notes unworthy of occupying for half an to the Tragedy of the Foscari. hour the attention of any man of the So far as we can understand the true smallest pretensions to understanding. state of the case, it is as follows. Mr We, who now write, have, it so hap- Southey, in his Vision of Judgment, pens, spent about three times as many (which nobody has read) chose to clap years in Italy as Lady Morgan and my Lord Byron into the “ Satanic Lord Byron taken together have yet School of Poetry.” This was ridicu. done ; and we dow solemnly declare, lous-firstly, because Ur Southey is that if the Ettrick Shepherd, after no satyrist, and should keep his fingers driving a score of fat ewes to Dur- from edge tools of all sorts ; and seham, were to announce “ ExGLAND, condiyand chiefly, because Mr Southey BF James HOGG," he could not pro- is a brother poet of Lord Byron’s, and duce any thing more exquisitely wore should have had nothing to do with thy of all human contempt, than that criticising his poetical performancom


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