4.

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.

5.

Where'er you travell'd then,
In buggy, gig, or shay,
Young women and young men,
Went laughing on their way,
Bestowing much applause

Upon this Whig Review,

No Quarterly there was

3.

When this Old Book was new.

6.

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,
7.

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.
4.

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.

6.

Our ladies, in those days,

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

7.
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.

8.

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.

12.

God save our glorious King,
And send him long to reign.
Now all the jibes they fling,
Men spurn with just disdain;
Each canker'd whigamore

Now meets with what's his due,
Which was not in time of yore,

When this Old Book was new.

THE WINE-BIBBER'S GLORY—A NEW SONG.

TUNE, The Jolly Miller.

Quo me, Bacche, rapis tui

Plenum ?.

Dulce periculum est

O Lenæe! sequi Deam

Cingentem viridi tempora pampino.-HOR.

1.

IF Horatius Flaccus made jolly old Bacchus
So often his favourite theme;

If in him it was classic to praise his old Massic,
And Falernian to gulp in a stream;

If Falstaff's vagaries, 'bout Sack and Canaries,
Have pleased us again and again;

Shall we not make merry on Port, Claret, Sherry,
Madeira, and sparkling Champagne ?

2.

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.

3.

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.

13.

God save our gracious King.
And send him long to live!
Lord! mischief on them bring,
That will not their alms 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.

4.

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.

5.

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.

6.

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 will be reckoned rather a heavy volume; and certainly it could not sell the better for coming out on the same day with the Pirate. Mr Murray and Mr Constable should understand each other a little better, and each would serve his own interest, by not being too anxious to interfere with the interest of his rival. It is bad policy to bring out the Edinburgh-the dull, stupid, superannuated, havering Edinburgh-and the Quarterly-the cold, well-informed, heartless, witless, prosing, pedantic Quarterly-both in the same week. And although we should be very sorry to compare the two first writers of their time with such folks as the "clever old body" and the "sour little gentleman," we cannot help saying, that Lord Byron and the Author of Waverley might quite as well choose different months for favouring the public with their visits-which are rather more pleasant, to be sure, but quite as regular and as expensive as if they were two tax-gatherers.

It would be highly ridiculous to enter, at this time of day, into any thing like a formal review, here, of Lord Byron's new volume. We have not happened to meet with any two individuals who expressed two different opinions about it and its contents. There is a great deal of power in Sardanapalus: [the Sardanapalus of David Lyndsay is weighed in the balance, and found wanting, when compared with it] but as a play, it is an utter failure; and, in God's name, why call a thing a tragedy, unless it be meant to be a play? What would people say to a new song of Tom Moore's, prefaced with an earnest injunction on man, woman, and child, never to think of singing it? A tragedy, not meant to be acted, seems to us to be just about as reasonable an affair as a song not meant to be sung. But even as a poem, Sardanapalus is not quite worthy of its author. Let any one just think, for a moment, of the magnificent story of Sardanapalus, and 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.