What with captains in new jockey-boots and silk breeches, Old dustmen with swinging great opera-hats, And shoeblacks reclining by statues in niches, There never was seen such a race of Jack Sprats! From the Boulevards-but hearken !-yes-as I'm a sinner, The clock is just striking the half-hour to dinner: So no more at present-short time for adorning My Day must be finish'd some other fine morning. Now, hey for old BEAUVILLIERS'* larder, my boy! And, once there, if the Goddess of Beauty and Joy Were to write "Come and kiss me, dear BOB!" I'd not budge Not a step, DICK, as sure as my name is * A celebrated restaurateur. R. FUDGE. LETTER IV. FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO "RETURN!"-no, never, while the withering hand Of bigot power is on that hapless land; While, for the faith my fathers held to God, * "They used to leave a yard square of the wall of the house unplastered, on which they write, in large letters, either the fore-mentioned verse of the Psalmist (If I forget thee, O Jerusalem,' &c.) or the words—The memory of the desolation."-Leo of Modena. *Still let your Still hope and suffer, all who can ! - but I, But whither?-every-where the scourge pursues Oh, E-gl-d! could such poor revenge atone one; Were it a vengeance, sweet enough to sate The wretch who flies from thy intolerant hate, * I have thought it prudent to omit some parts of Mr. Phelim Connor's letter. He is evidently an intemperate young man, and has associated with his cousins, the Fudges, to very little purpose. To hear his curses on such barbarous sway Echoed, where'er he bends his cheerless way;- Teems for his vengeance with such poisonous sweets; Upon that grasping power, that selfish pride, If thus to hear thee branded be a bliss That Vengeance loves, there's yet more sweet than this, That 'twas an Irish head, an Irish heart, Made thee the fall'n and tarnish'd thing thou art; That, as the centaur * gave th' infected vest In which he died, to rack his conqueror's breast, as heaps of dead We sent thee C GH: Have slain their slayers by the pest they spread, * * * * * When will the world shake off such yokes? oh, when Will that redeeming day shine out on men, That shall behold them rise, erect and free As Heav'n and Nature meant mankind should be! To the vile pagod things, that o'er her brow, Membra et Herculeos toros Urit lues Nessea, Ille, ille victor vincitur. SENEC. Hercul. Et. |