Then Tommy, (5) agra! if you fall out with Blackwood,
For dying luxuriously, purchase a Packwood-
Frank Jeffrey, and all that, was nothing, for certain,
To us; but that's all in my eye, Betty Martin.

Then, here's to poor Tom, and his verses so sunny,
That made all our maids and young widows so funny;
Which sent half the spalpeens of Munster dragooning,
And sent all the punks in the kingdom salooning.

Now, the Minstrel of Gertrude-Compiler of Colburn-
Once the bard of high Scotland-now that of High Holborn ;
Whose jinglings the Cockney-lambs lead like a ram-bell,
And, after the toast, strike up, "Ranting Tom Campbell."
Now, here's to Will Wordsworth, so wise and so wordy,
And the sweet simple hymns of his own hurdy-gurdy-
Who in vain blows the bellows of Milton's old organ,
While he thinks he could lull all the snakes on the Gorgon.
Now drain for mad Coleridge-the mystical Lacon,
Who out-cants Wild Kant, and out-Bacons old Bacon-
The vain, self-tormenting, and eloquent railer,
Who out of his tropes jerries Jeremy Taylor.

Success to the Bard of the Bay !-may he wear it
Till we see from his temples one worthy to tear it-
And, though his hexameters are somewhat mouthy,
This glass will make greener the laurel of Southey.
And, after the Minstrel of Roderic and Madoc,
We'll be pardon'd to give our poetical Sadoc,
Mad Shelly, the wild atheist Coryphoeus,

Whose Poems and Thoughts are "a Curse and a Chaos."
Now, here's Billy Bowles, both for epic and sonnet,

Who Lord Byron has bother'd, I lay my life on it—
And here's our best wish to the long-sodden'd flummery,
So thick and so slab, of mild Jemmy Montgomery.

And here's the Poetical Bank of Sam Rogers-
Firm still by the aid of old England's old Codgers,

Whose notes are as good as those given by Lord Fanny, (6)
Or Lord Byron, who puffs them—a critical zany.

Here's Milman, the Idol of Square-caps at Oxford,
Though his verses will scarce ever travel to Foxford ; (7)
His Pegasus broken, no longer is skittish,

Though he's puff'd in the Quarterly-puff'd in the British.

Though his verse stately be as the dance call'd the Pyrrhic,
And his high harp be tuned to the epic and lyric,

Yet we fear that his glory but stubble is built on,

And his hymns we scarce fancy quite equal to Milton.

For of late we remember of nothing grown tamer,

Than the steed that bore "Fazio," and paced under "Samor;"
And the "Martyr," "Belshazzar," and "Fall of Jerusalem,"
We think will scarce live to the age of Methusalem.

Here's to splendid John Wilson, and John Wilson Croker,
Whose satire's as dreadful as Jarvie's red poker,

Who cut up poor Joe, and that booby-the other- (8)
As Joe for economy cut up his brother.

(5.) Anglice, my darling.

(6.) This can surely require no explanation.

(7.) West of Ireland, ni fallor-or elsewhere, inter barbaros. (8.) See note (6.)

Now fill up a bumper for Catiline Croly,

The compeer of Massinger, Fletcher, and Rowley,

And confusion to Elliston, Kemble, and Harris,

Who were blind to the beams of the author of "Paris."

Now, the bards of the drama-from Ireland-all tragic-
Here's first Nosy Maturin, the mild and the magic,
Who into a ball-room as gracefully twitches,

As Bertram-fourth act-enters buttoning his breeches.

May his stays never crack while quadrilling (9) or preaching;
May his wig ne'er grow grey, nor his cravat want bleaching;
May his muse of her quinzy be cured by a gargle;

May he faint at Miss Wilson and dream in the Dargle. (10)

May he send out a dozen more heroes from Trinity,
And for that be made provost, its prop of divinity-
We wish Melmoth well, for he is a true Tory,
Whate'er Coleridge may say, and let that be his glory.
Here's to poor Skinny Shiel, whose entire occupation
Is gone, since O'Neil ceased delighting the nation;
Whose head's much more empty than Maturin's wig, sirs,
But, nevertheless, we'll give Sheelahnagig, (11) sirs.

And, now, Mr Knowles-who his feelings once vented,
While our living bards HE so well represented; (12)
And with him we'll couple a man they call Banim,

Though a bard we scarce think him—a bard we scarce feign him. (13)
Here's Haynes' "Bridal Night "-in five acts- 'tis no wonder
He kill'd the poor maiden-yet, faith, 'twas a blunder

To christen that "conscience 'twas very ironical;

But he floats down to fame through the sink of the "Chronicle."

And here's the last bard of the buskin, poor Bertridge,

Whom Miss Wilson was near blowing up like a cartridge

Simple Clarke! in the tragic you're yet but a tyro,

Though, faith, there was something not bad in "Ramiro." (14)

Here's Charley from Sligo, whose finical verses,
Each bog-trotter on black Benbulben rehearses,
As flimsy and sloppish as waiting-maid's washes,

Or a speech of his own, or Sir James M'Intosh's. (15)

(9.) The reverend Mr Maturin is one of the first quadrillers now extant. He also is a great grinder-and a true Tory.

(10.) A beautiful pass in the Co. Wicklow. You ought to go and see it. Ans. We are too old to go touring-C. N.

(11.) A nickname bestowed on Shiel, by the late Right Honourable John Philpot Curran, Master of the Rolls in Ireland, much to the satisfaction of the poet. Sheelahnagig is the name of a popular tune in the Sister Island, but, we are sorry to say, to words of rather an immoral tendency.

(12.) A Poet mentioned by Cornelius Webb, under the title of "Green Knowles." Rather personal this of Corney. At a public dinner of the Literary Fund, Mr Knowles, we read in the papers, on the health of the Poets of England being proposed, returned thanks! Air, "How prettily we apples swim." On the same occasion an Alderman, (we never mention names,) Captain of Trainbands, returned thanks on the health of the Duke of Wellington and the British army being given. We have an obscure remembrance of Sir Ronald Ferguson doing the same thing here on a similar occasion. Air," See the conquering hero."

(13.) Banim? Quære. Is it possible there is such a name?

(14.) J. Bertridge Clerk, Esq. Sch. T. C. D. wrote a play called Ramiro-a perfect tragedy, all being killed in it except the servants, who were judiciously employed to carry off the dead. Harris, the manager of the Dublin theatre, and he had some rumpus about it: so had Miss Wilson-the Miss Stephens of Dublin-a very pretty woman, and a very pretty actress. The house was nearly demolished by his brother students a peaceful body of ingenuous youth.

(15.) Late Recorder of Bombay-and father of the pretty bantling of which Mrs Divan is not yet delivered.

And while we pass over the Cockneyish dastards,

We must drink to the poet of beggary and bastards;
For there's something so strong in his old-fashion'd gab, sirs,
We'll empty a glass to the Veteran Crabbe, (16) sirs.

Here's to Mitchell, restorer of dear Aristophanes,

Who has made all his fun, and his fire, and his scoffing his.
Here's to Frere, who sometime since wrote Dan Whistlecraft,
And to Rose, who is busy with Roland the Daft.

And here's to the lady-like, lisping, sweet fellow
Who thinks he can write in the vein of Othello,
Without plot or passion-Alas! Peter Proctor-

But it scandals the muse, that makes him need a Doctor. (17)
But still he has written some stanzas of merit,
And caught a fine spark of the delicate spirit

Of the rich Bards of old-and might be an apology
For a Minstrel-wer't not for Cockaigne and Mythology.

And now to the dames of the sky-colour'd stocking,
Who side-saddle Pegasus, his long switch-tail docking,
Who tatter fine cambrics in rhythmical labors,
And dream to the lullings of hautboys and tabors.
Here's first Mother Morgan, akin to morality,
As near as she is to a woman of quality—
And the sweet sapphic verses of Maidenly Sidney,
That so tickle the fancy and touch up the kidney.
Those verses so mawkish, so fat, and so gawdy,
A girlish first fire of the bold and the

Which give a fair promise all wisely and wittily
Of the Jacobin cant of her "France" and her " Italy."
But in spite of Canidia and her doughty cavalier,
At her follies full often we purpose to have a leer-
Unless to Algiers she fly off, as we task her,

Or become the she-Solon (18) of mad Madagascar.

Here's Lucy, in whom wit and wisdom are blended,
By whom everything's seen, felt, and comprehended—
And here's to the genius of Helen Maria,

Of all that is frothy the Entelecheia.

Here's to Opie the sweet-Here's to high-minded Hannah-
Here's to Shakespeare in Petticoats, noble Joanna—
Here's to all from soft Hemans as rich as a ruby,

To the brogue and the blarney of pretty Miss Lubè. (19)

(16.) Crabbe-Mr North, why do I not ever see an article in your Magazine doing justice to the powerful talents of this powerful poet? Ans. There's a braw time coming-C. N.

(17.) Alias Barry Cornwall. A young gentleman most unjustifiably treated in Blackwood. What a shame it is, that a rising young man cannot be allowed to kill his people in fine tragedies, without the sneer of envy and the murmuring of malice! Take that, Christopher! See how differently he is appreciated in London-where he, author of Mirandola, is made one of a committee to erect a monument to his congenial spirit, William Shakespeare, author of Hamlet, and other agreeable dramas. Ans. We defy any one to point out a passage in which we have not extolled Mr Cornwall. In fact, he is one of our own pets; and if we do sometimes give him a little gentle and benignant correction, it is only because we remember the precept of Solomon, "He that spareth the rod, spoileth the child.”—C. N.

(18.) Observe, not a Solan goose.

(19.) Pretty indeed, and very pretty-but no brogue, or no blarney, Mr Paddy-C. N.

Now here are four bards, to whom genius is pater,
Who never suck'd poetry from Alma Mater-

Who just knew so much of the great Aristotle,

As they got from the fields, from their feelings, and bottle.

Fill first for the Chaldee-the shepherd of Ettrick,
Who stole from the Hills' hums his musical rhet'rick-
For Hogg's rhyme is no grunting-and here's a libation
To Bloomfield, the simplest sweet Bard of the nation.

Here's to Clare and his verses, so simple and pleasant,
The London's one Bard-the Northamptonshire peasant;
And here's to the Galloway boy and his lyrics,
That have put all the Bards of Cockaigne in hysterics.

Here's to Luttrell and Dale, and the Dante of Carey ;
Here's to Lloyd, the preserver of great Alfieri;
And this bumper to Lamb we send gratefully greeting,
For we love his deep baaing and beautiful bleating.

Here's Thurlow half-witted, and Spencer half- attic,
Yet not lame in the light and the epigrammatic;
Herbert, tasteless and black, as a glass of bad negus; (20)
And Strangford, who gather'd some gold from the Tagus.

And now to the bards of the famed silent sister; (21)
We own, for some seasons or so, we have miss'd her.
And the prize-winning poets of Isis and Cam,
Very fine-very learned-and scarce worth a d-

And now into dozens the poets we'll trundle;

We must drink to them now at least twelve in the bundle.
Here's Williams and Darley, Barton and Fitzgerald,
Who might shine in a page of the "Times" or the "Herald."

Here's to all the rest, both esquired and anonymous,
May they all in their times find their own Hieronymus;
Though their verses may live until Saturday se'nnight,
Or as long as the speeches of Brougham or of Bennet.

We can give no more names-faith, we ne'er could be able;
If we did, we would soon be under the table.

Then one glass to them all, male and female together,
Who recite in the dog-days, in spite of the weather.

This last three times three, boys.-Hip, hip, hip, hurra!
The poets of England-By jingo! 'tis day.

Can Alaric (22) save them ?-No; our personality
And Maga alone can give them immortality.

PADDY.

(20.) Hibernice Nagus. See note 4.

(21.) By "Silent Sister," is meant Trinity College, Dublin-A most unfounded and ridiculous calumny, as we shall have the pleasure of proving ere long. C. N.

(22.) Alaric A. Watts, Esq. who is employed about what we doubt not will be a most interesting work, Specimens of the British Poets. Of course, he must exhibit us in full fig. C. N.

VOL. XII.

L

GREEN'S GUIDE TO THE LAKES OF ENGLAND.*

The Tourist's New Guide; containing a Description of the Lakes, Mountains, and Scenery in Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Lancashire; with some Account of their Bordering Towns and Villages. By William Green. 2 vols. 8vo. Kendal, printed and published by R. Lough and Co.; sold by J. Richardson, 91, Royal Exchange, London; Constable, Edinburgh; Smith, Liverpool, &c. &c. ; and by the author, at Ambleside.

Besides these names, a vast crowd of others are mentioned as sellers of Mr Green's Work. But we fear they are out of copies, for the most part; since we know that applications have in vain been made, at different times, by different friends of our own.