MOLL.

DEAN SWIFT.

Mollis abuti,
Has an acuti,
No lasso finis,
Molli divinis.*

TO MY MISTRESS.

DEAN SWIFT.

Om de armis tres,
Imi na dis tres.
Cantu disco ver
Meas alo ver ?t

A LOVE SONG.

DEAN SWIFT.

Apud in is almi de si re,
Mimis tres I ne ver re qui re,
Alo veri findit a gestis,
His miseri ne ver at restis.

• Moll is a beauty,

Has an acute eye ;
No lass so fine is,
Molly divine is

+ O my dear mistress

I am in a distress.
Can't you discover
Me as a lover?

A pudding is all my desire,
My niistress I never require;
A lover I find it a jest is,
His misery never at rest is.

A GENTLE ECHO ON WOMAN.

IN THE DORIC MANNER.

DEAN SWIFT.

Shepherd. Echo, I ween, will in the woods reply,

And quaintly answer questions: shall I try? Echo.

Try. Shepherd. What must we do our passion to express ? Echo.

Press. Shepherd. How shall I please her, who ne'er loved before ? Echo.

Before. Shepherd. What most moves women when we then address ? Echo.

A dress. Shepherd. Say, what can keep her chaste whom I adore ? Echo.

A door. Shepherd. If music softens rocks, love tunes my lyre. Echo.

Liar, Shepherd. Then teach me, Echo, how shall I come by her? Echo.

Buy her. Shepherd. When bought, no question I shall be her dear? Echo.

Her deer, Shepherd. But deer have horns : how must I keep her under ? Echo.

Keep her under. Shepherd. But what can glad me when she's laid on bier ? Echo.

Beer. Shepherd. What must I do when women will be kind ? Echo.

Be kind. Shepherd. What must I do when women will be cross? Echo.

Be cross Shepherd. Lord, what is she that can so turn and win i? Echo.

Wind. Shepherd. If she be wind, what stills her when she blows ? Echo,

Blows.
Shepherd. But if she bang again, still should I bang her?
Echo.

BANG HER.
Shepherd Is there no way to moderate her anger?
Echo.

Hang her.
Shepherd Thanks, gentle Echo! right thy answers tell

What woman is and how to guard her well. Echo.

Guard her well.

TO MY NOSE.

ANONYMOUS.

Knows he that never took a pinch,

Nosey! the pleasure thence which flows ?
Knows he the titillating joy

Which my nose knows?

Oh, nose! I am as fond of thee

As any mountain of its shows!
I gaze on thee, and feel that pride

A Roman knows!

ROGER AND DOLLY.

BLACKWOOD.

Young Roger came tapping at Dolly's window

Thumpaty, thumpaty, thump;
He begg'd for admittance—she answered him no-

Glumpaty, glumpaty, glump.
No, no, Roger, no—as you came you may go-

Stumpaty, stumpaty, stump.
O what

the reason, dear Dolly ? he cried-
Humpaty, humpaty, hump-
That thus I'm cast off and unkindly denied ?-

Trumpaty, trumpaty, trump-
Some rival more dear, I guess, has been here-

Crumpaty, crumpaty, crump-
Suppose there's been two, sir, pray what's that to you, sir ?

Numpaty, numpaty, nump-
Wi' a disconsolate look his sad farewell he took-

Trumpaty, trumpaty, trump-
And all in despair jump'd into a brook-

Jumpaty, jumpaty, jump-
His courage did cool in a filthy green pool-

Slumpaty, slumpaty, slump-
So he swam to the shore, but saw Dolly no more-

Dumpaty, dumpaty, dump

He did speedily find one more fat and more kind

Plumpaty, plumpaty, plump-
But poor Dolly's afraid she must die an old maid-

Mumpaty, mumpaty, mump.

THE IRISHMAN.

BLACKWOOD.

I.
THERE was a lady lived at Leith,

A lady very stylish, man,
And yet, in spite of all her teeth,
She fell in love with an Irishman,

A nasty, ugly Irishman,

A wild tremendous Irishman, A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring Irishman.

IL.

His face was no ways beautiful,

For with small-pox 't was scarred across :
And the shoulders of the ugly dog
Were almost doubled a yard across.

O the lump of an Irishman,

The whiskey devouring IrishmanThe great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue, the fighting, riot

ing Irishman.

III.
One of his eyes was bottle green,

And the other eye was out, my dear;
And the calves of his wicked-looking legs
Were more than two feet about, my dear,

O, the great big Irishman,

The rattling, battling IrishmanThe stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering swash

of an Irishman.

IV.
He took so much of Lundy-foot,

That he used to snort and snufile-0,

And in shape and size the fellow's neck
Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo.

0, the horrible Irishman,

The thundering, blundering IrishmanThe slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, hashing Irish

man.

V.
His name was a terrible name, indeed,

Being Timothy Thady Mulligan;
And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch,
He'd not rest till he fill'd it full again,

The boozing, bruising Irishman,

The 'toxicated IrishmanThe whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no dandy Irishman.

VI.
This was the lad the lady loved,

Like all the girls of quality;
And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith,
Just by the way of jollity,

O, the leathering Irishman,
The barbarous, savage

Irishman-
The hearts of the maids and the gentlemen's heads were bothered

I'm sure by this Irishman.

A CATALECTIC MONODY!

CRUIKSHANK'S OMNIBUS.
A cat I sing, of famous memory,
Though catachrestical my song may be;
In a small garden catacomb she lies,
And cataclysms fill her comrades' eyes ;
Borne on the air, the catacoustic song
Swells with her virtues' catalogue along;
No cataplasm could lengthen out her years,
Though mourning friends shed cataracts of tears.
Once loud and strong her catechist-like voice
It dwindled to a catcall's squeaking noise;