A Pastoral Ballad.

BY JOHN BULL.

Dublin, March 12, 1827.--Friday, after the arrival of the packet bringing the account of the defeat of the Catholic Question, in the House of Commons, orders were sent to the Pigeon-House to forward 5,000,000 rounds of musket-ball cartridge to the different garrisons round the country.--Freeman's Journal.

I have found out a gift for my Erin,
A gift that will surely content her:--
Sweet pledge of a love so endearing!
Five millions of bullets I've sent her.

She askt me for Freedom and Right,
But ill she her wants understood;--
Ball cartridges, morning and night,
Is a dose that will do her more good.

There is hardly a day of our lives
But we read, in some amiable trials,
How husbands make love to their wives
Thro' the medium of hemp and of vials.

One thinks, with his mistress or mate
A good halter is sure to agree--
That love-knot which, early and late,
I have tried, my dear Erin, on thee.

While another, whom Hymen has blest
With a wife that is not over placid,
Consigns the dear charmer to rest,
With a dose of the best Prussic acid.

Thus, Erin! my love do I show--
Thus quiet thee, mate of my bed!
And, as poison and hemp are too slow,
Do thy business with bullets instead.

Should thy faith in my medicine be shaken,
Ask Roden, that mildest of saints;
He'll tell thee, lead, inwardly taken,
Alone can remove thy complaints;--

That, blest as thou art in thy lot,
Nothing's wanted to make it more pleasant
But being hanged, tortured and shot,
Much oftener than thou art at present.

Even Wellington's self hath averred
Thou art yet but half sabred and hung,
And I loved him the more when I heard
Such tenderness fall from his tongue.

So take the five millions of pills,
Dear partner, I herewith inclose;
'Tis the cure that all quacks for thy ill,
From Cromwell to Eldon, propose.

And you, ye brave bullets that go,
How I wish that, before you set out,
The Devil of the Freischütz could know
The good work you are going about.

For he'd charm ye, in spite of your lead.
Into such supernatural wit.
That you'd all of you know, as you sped,
Where a bullet of sense ought to hit.

Thomas Moore

Thomas Moore was an Irish poet, singer, and songwriter, celebrated for his Irish Melodies, which are now considered a staple of Irish cultural heritage. Born on May 28, 1779, in Dublin, Ireland, Moore gained fame for his lyrical songs, many of which were set to traditional Irish tunes. Not only a poet, but he was also a staunch advocate of Irish nationalism, often incorporating themes of national identity and resistance into his work. Moore's influential collection 'Irish Melodies' became popular in both Ireland and Britain and helped to define the literary output of the era. He passed away on February 25, 1852, but his legacy in Irish literature and music endures.

Thomas Moore

A Sad Case.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Go, Then--'Tis Vain. (Sicilian Air.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Aspasia.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Bright Moon.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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The Duel. - A Serious Ballad.

"Like the two Kings of Brentford smelling at one nosegay."


In Brentford town, of old renown,
There lived a Mister Bray,
Who fell in love with Lucy Bell,
And so did Mr. Clay.

To see her ride from Hammersmith,
By all it was allowed,
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Such Angels on a Cloud.

Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Clay,
You choose to rival me,
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No thoroughfare shall be.

Unless you now give up your suit,
You may repent your love;
I who have shot a pigeon match,
Can shoot a turtle dove.

So pray before you woo her more,
Consider what you do;
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I'll pop it into you.

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Intolerance, A Satire.

        "This clamor which pretends to be raised for the safety of religion has almost worn put the very appearance of it, and rendered us not only the most divided but the most immoral people upon the face of the earth."

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Start not, my friend, nor think the Muse will stain
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Twopenny Post-Bag, Intercepted Letters, Etc. Letter I.

DEDICATION. TO STEPHEN WOOLRICHE, ESQ.


MY DEAR WOOLRICHE,--

It is now about seven years since I promised (and I grieve to think it is almost as long since we met) to dedicate to you the very first Book, of whatever size or kind I should publish. Who could have thought that so many years would elapse, without my giving the least signs of life upon the subject of this important promise? Who could have imagined that a volume of doggerel, after all, would be the first offering that Gratitude would lay upon the shrine of Friendship?

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The Fudge Family In Paris Letter XII. From Miss Biddy Fudge To Miss Dorothy ----.

At last, DOLLY,--thanks to potent emetic,
Which BOBBY and Pa, grimace sympathetic,
Have swallowed this morning, to balance the bliss,
Of an eel matelote and a bisque d'écrevisses--
I've a morning at home to myself, and sit down
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Lady JANE, in the novel, less languisht to hear,
If that elegant cornet she met at Lord NEVILLE'S
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With Blue Devils, thank heaven, I have nothing to do--
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A Waterloo Ballad.

To Waterloo, with sad ado,
And many a sigh and groan,
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To look for Peter Stone.

"O prithee tell, good sentinel,
If I shall find him here?
I'm come to weep upon his corse,
My Ninety-Second dear!

"Into our town a sergeant came,
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"They taught him how to turn his toes,
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"A sorry March indeed to leave
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Write On, Write On. A Ballad.

Air.--"Sleep on, sleep on, my Kathleen dear.
                    salvete, fratres Asini. ST. FRANCIS.


Write on, write on, ye Barons dear,
    Ye Dukes, write hard and fast;
The good we've sought for many a year
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One letter more, Newcastle, pen,
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And more than Ireland's host of men,
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                    Write on, write on, etc.

Sure never since the precious use
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While intellect, 'mong high and low,
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