The MAGPIE and ROBIN RED-BREAST: ATALE, by Peter Pindar.

MAGPIE, in the spirit of romance,

A Much like the fam'd Reformers now of France,

Flew from the dwelling of an old Poiffarde;
Where, fometimes in his cage, and fometimes out,
He justified the Revolution rout,

That is, call'd names, and got a fop for his reward.

Red-hot with Monarch roafting coals,

Just like his old fish-thund'ring Dame,

He left the Queen of crabs, and plaice, and foles,
To kindle in Old England's realm a flame.

Arriv'd at evening's philofophic hour,

He rested on a rural antique tow'r,

Some Baron's castle in the days of old;
When furious wars, miínomer'á civil,

Sent mighty chiefs to fee the Devil,

Leaving behind, their bodies for rich mould,
That pliable from form to form patroles,
Making fresh houses for new fouls.

Perch'd on the wall, he cocks his tail and eye,
And hops like modern beaux in country dances;
Looks dev'lifh knowing, with his head awry,
Squinting with connoiffeurship glances.

All on a fudden, Maggot ftarts and stares,
And wonders, and for fomewhat firange prepares;
But lo, his wonder did not hold him long-
Soft from a bush below, divinely clear,

A modeft warble melted on his ear,

A plaintive, foothing, folitary fong

A ftealing, timid, unprefuming found,
Afraid dim Nature's deep repofe to wound;

That hufh'd (a death-like paufe) the rude Sublime.
This was a novelty to Mag indeed,

Who, pulling up his fpindle-fhanks with speed,
Dropp'd from his turret, half-devour'd by Time,

A la Françoife, upon the spray

Where a lone Red-breast pour'd to eve, his lay.
Staring the modeft minurel in the face;
Familiar, and with arch grimace,

He conn'd the dufky warbler o'er and o'er,
As though he knew him years before;
And thus began, with feeming great civility,
All in the Paris cafe of volubility-

"What

"What-Bobby! dam'me, is it you
"That thus your pretty phiz to mufic fcrew,
"So far from hamlet, village, town, and city,
"To glad old battlements with dull pfalm ditty?
"'Sdeath! what a pleasant, lively, merry fcene!
Plenty of bats, and owls, and ghofts, I ween;
"Rare midnight fcreeches, Bob, between you all:
Why, what's the name on't, Bobby? difmal Hall?
"Come, to be ferious-curfe this queer old spot,
"And let thy owlish habitation rot!

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Join me, and foon in riot will we revel:

"I'll teach thee how to curfe, and call folks names,
"And be expert in treason, murder, flames,
"And most divinely play the devil.
"Yes, thou fhalt leave this spectred hole,

"And prove thou haft a bit of foul:

"Soon fhalt thou fee old ftupid London dance; "There will we fhine immortal knaves;

"Not steal unknown, like cuckoos, to our graves,
"But imitate the geniuses of France.

"Who'd be that monkish, cloister'd thing, a mufcle?
Importance only can arife from buftle!
"Tornado, thunder, lightning, tumult, ftrife;
"These charm, and add a dignity to life.

"That thou shouldft choose this spot, is monftrous odd
"Poh, poh! thou canst not like this life, by G--!”

"Sir!" like one thunder-ftricken, ftaring wide-
"Can you be ferious, Sir?" the Robin cried.
"Serious!" rejoin'a the Magpic,

aye, my boy"So come, let's play the devil, and enjoy."

"Flames!" quoth the Robin-" and in riot revel,
"Call names, and curfe, divinely play the devil!
"I cannot, for my life, the fun difcern."

"No!-blush then, Bob, and follow me, and learn."

"Excufe me, Sir," the modeft Hermit cried"Hell's not the hobby-horfe I wish to ride.

"Hell!" laugh'd the Magpie, " hell no longer dread:

Why, Bob, in France the Devil's lately dead:

"Damnation vulgar to a Frenchman's hearing-
"The word is only kept alive for swearing.
"Against futurity they all proteft;

"And God and Heav'n are grown a standing jeft.
"Brimstone and fin are downright out of fashion;
"France is quite altered-now a thinking nation :
"No more of penitential tears and groans!
"Philofophy has crack'd Religion's bones.

"As for your Saviour of a wicked world,

Long from his confequence has he been hurl'd :

"They

"They do acknowledge fuch a man, d'ye fee;
"But then they call him fimple Monfieur Chrift.
"Bob, for thy ignorance, pray blush for shame-
"Behold, thy Doctor Priestley fays the fame.

"Well! now thou fully art convinc'd-let's go.'
"What curfed doctrine!" quoth the Robin, "No
"I won't go-no! thy fpeeches make me fhudder."
"Poor Robin!" quoth the Magpie, "what a pudder!
"Be damn'd then, Bobby"-flying off, he rav'd-
"And (quoth the Robin) Sir, may you be fav'd!"
This faid, the tuneful Sprite renew'd his lay;
A fweet and farewell hymn to parting Day.

In Thomas Paine the Magpie doth appear:
That I'm Poor Robin, is not quite fo clear.

An APOLOGY for KINGS. By the fame.

A

S want of candour really is not right,

I own my Satire too inclin'd to bite:
On Kings behold it breakfaft, dine, and fup-
Now fhall fhe praise, and try to make it up.
Why will the fimple world expect wife things
From lofty folk, particularly Kings?

Look on their poverty of education !
Ador'd and flatter'd, taught that they are Gods;
And by their awful frowns and nods,

Jove-like, to fhake the pillars of creation!
They scorn that little ufeful Imp call'd Mind,
Who fits them for the circle of Mankind!
Pride their companion, and the World their hate;
Immur'd, they doze in ignorance and state.
Sometimes, indeed, great Kings will condefcend
A little with their fubjects to unbend!

An inftance take:-A King of this great Land,
In days of yore, we understand,

Did vifit Sal'fbury's old church fo fair:

An Earl of Pembroke was the Monarch's guide;
Incog. they travell'd, fhuffling fide by fide;

And into the Cathedral ftole the Pair.

The Verger met them in his blue filk gown,
And humbly bow'd his neck with rev'rence down,

Low as an afs to lick a lack of hay:

Looking the frighten'd Verger through and through,
All with his eye-glass" Well, Sir, who are you?

"What, what, Sir?-hey, Sir?" deign'd the King to say.

"I am the Verger here, most mighty * King:

VOL. III, No. 5.

H

"In

The reader will be pleafed to obferve, that the Verger, of all the fons of the Church, was the only one entrusted with the Royal Intention! ! !

"In this Cathedral I do ev'ry thing;

"Sweep it, an't please ye, Sir, and keep it clean."
"Hey? Verger! Verger !-you the Verger?-hey ?"
"Yes, please your glorious Majesty, I be,"
The Verger answer'd, with the mildest mien.

Then turn'd the King about towards the Peer,

And wink'd, and laugh'd; then whifper'd in his ear, "Hey, hey-what, what-fine fellow, 'pon my word: "I'll knight him, knight him, knight him-hey, my Lord ?" Then with his glass, as hard as eye could ftrain, He kenn'd the trembling Verger o'er again.

"He's a poor Verger, Sire," his Lordship cry'd: "Six-pence would handsomely requite him."

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"Poor Verger, Verger, hey?" the King reply'd:

"No, no, then, we won't knight him-no, won't knight him." Now to the lofty roof the King did raise

His glafs, and kipp'd it o'er with founds of praife;
For thus his marv'ling Majefty did speak:

«Fine roof this, Mafter Verger, quite complete;
High-high and lofty too, and clean and neat:

"What, Verger, what? mop, mop it once a week?" "An't please your Majefty," with marv'ling chops, The Verger anfwer'd, "we have got no mops

"In Sal'fb'ry that will reach fo high."

"Not mop, no, no, not mop it," quoth the King-
"No, Sir, our Sal'f'ry mops do no fuch thing;
"They might as well pretend to fcrub the sky."

M ORAL.

This little anecdote doth plainly fhow

That Ignorance, a King too often lurches ;

For, hid from Art, Lord! how fhould Monarchs know
The nat'ral hiftory of mops and churches?

STORY THE SECOND. FROM Sal'fb'ry Church to Wilton House fo grand, Return'd the mighty Ruler of the land

My Lord, you've got fine ftatues," faid the King. "A few! beneath your royal notice, Sir,"

Replied Lord Pembroke Stir, my Lord, ftir, ftir; "Let's fee them all, all, all, all, ev'ry thing.

"Who's this? who's this?-who's this fine fellow here?" "Sefoftris," bowing low, replied the Peer.

"Sir Softris, hey?-Sir Softris ?-'pon my word!

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Knight or a Baronet, my Lord?"

"One of my making ?-what, my Lord, my making This, with a vengeance, was mistaking!

Se-foftris,

"Se-foftris, Sire," fo foft, the Peer reply'd-
"A famous King of Egypt, Sir, of old."
"Poh, poh!" th' inftructed Monarch fnappifh cry'd,
"I need not that-I need not that be told."

"Pray, pray, my Lord, who's that big fellow there ?"
""Tis Hercules," replies the fhrinking Peer.

"Strong fellow, hey, my Lord? ftrong fellow, hey?
"Clean'd ftables !-crack'd a lion like a flea;

"Kill'd fnakes, great fnakes, that in a cradle found him-
"The Queen, Queen's coming! wrap an apron round him."

OUR Moral is not merely water-gruel

It shows that curiofity's a jewel!

It shows with Kings that Ignorance may dwell:
It shows that fubjects must not give opinions
To People reigning over wide dominions,

As information to great Folk, is hell:

I: fhows that Decency may live with Kings,
On whom the bold Virtú-men turn their backs;
And shows (for num'rous are the naked things)
That faucy Statues fhould be lodg'd in facks.

T. SENSIBILITY. From the Comic Opera of "The Woodman." WEET inmate-SENSIBILITY!

How pure thy tranfports flow,

When even grief that fprings from thee,
Is Luxury in Woe!

Without thee-where's the figh of Love,

Or blush by grace refin'd?

Where Friendship's facred tear, to prove

The triumph of the mind?

FEMALE CHARACTER,

OMAN, charming, lovely creature,

WGentle, modeft, graceful thing;

Moft refined work of nature,

Fairer than the flow'ry fpring.

Queen of every gentle paffion,
Tender fympathy and love;
Perfect work of heav'nly fashion,
Miniature of charms above.
Love and grace in rich profufion,
Soft'ning man's ferocious foul;
All creation's fair conclufion,
Form'd to beautify the whole,

J. H.

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