Air.

Ye high o'er-hanging walls
That sure no monarch loves,

Where fain would freedom linger with delight,
Oft at the break of day

He's sought your wearied way,

Oft by the glare of flambeaux glitt'ring light,
In chariot close, fresh from the haunts of folly,
With Nancy by his side, sworn foe to melancholy.
Recitative.

But hark the door's unbarr'd, and marching forth,
With gouty steps and slow

Gen'rals and shrives, and peers of royal birth,
And mitred bishops home to dinner go;

North, with th' exchequer laurels on his brow,

From haughty Greville torn,

And sad Fitzpatrick on his bridal morn,

That weeps his fault too late; and proud Dundas;

And watchful Dy-n; and the paler Burke,

The rival of his fortune, and his place;
And either Onslow there.

"A Long Story," which Gray himself considered unworthy a place amongst his Poems, does not appear to have attracted enough attention to be parodied, but a sequel to it was written by John Penn, and inserted in Hakewill's History of Windsor, and a further sequel to that by the Poet Laureate, Henry James Pye.

"Poems by Mr. Gray." Dublin. Printed by William Sleater, at No. 51 in Castle Street, 1775 This volume, published only four years after the death of Gray, contains poems which show that his reputation had already made its way to the Continent. It contains several Latin translations of the Elegy; a Latin address "Ad Poetam," and an Italian version of the Elegy written by Signor Abbate Crocchi of Sienna. It also gives Mason's continuation of Gray's fragmentary Ode on the Pleasure arising from Vicissitude; the Ode to Raneleigh, a Parody; An Evening Contemplation in a College, a Parody; and Lloyd and Colman's Burlesque Ode, all of which parodies have already been quoted.

"Runic Odes, imitated from the Norse Tongue," in the manner of Mr. Gray. By Thomas James Mathias. Quarto. London, 1781. Price one shilling and sixpence. This imitation of Gray by the learned author of the once famous Pursuits of Literature, has nothing of a burlesque character, indeed it opens with a complimentary address to Gray :

"PARDON me, Mighty Poet, that I turn My daring steps to thy supreme abode, And tread with awe the solitary road,

To deck with fancied wreaths thy hallow'd urn."

Showing how he went farther than he intended, and came safe home again.

The story of John Gilpin's ride was related to Cowper by his friend, Lady Austen, who had heard it as a child. It caused the poet a sleepless night, we are told, as he was kept awake by laughter at it. During these restless hours he turned it into the famous ballad. It appeared in the 'Public Advertiser," November 14th, 1782, anonymously.

A celebrated actor named Henderson took it for one of his public recitations at Freemasons' Hall. It became immediately so popular that it was printed everywhere-in newspapers, magazines, and separately. It was even sung

as a common ballad in the streets. It has fully preserved its popularity to the present date.

The original John Gilpin was, it is said, a Mr. Beyer, a linendraper, who lived at the Cheapside corner of Paternoster Row. He died in 1791, at the age of nearly a hundred years.

JOHN GILPIN was a citizen
Of credit and renown,

A trainband captain eke was he
Of famous London town.

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear,
"Though wedded we have been
These twice ten tedious years, yet we
No holiday have seen.

"To-morrow is our wedding day,
And we will then repair
Unto the Bell at Edmonton,
All in a chaise and pair.

"My sister, and my sister's child, Myself, and children three,

Will fill the chaise; so you must ride On horseback after we. ""

He soon replied, "I do admire
Of womankind but one,
And you are she, my dearest dear,
Therefore it shall be done.

"I am a linendraper bold,

As all the world doth know,
And my good friend the calender
Will lend his horse to go."

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said
And for that wine is dear,
We will be furnished with our own,
Which is both bright and clear."

John Gilpin kissed his loving wife;
O'erjoyed was he to find

That, though on pleasure she was bent,
She had a frugal mind.

The morning came, the chaise was brought,
But yet was not allowed

To drive up to the door, lest all

Should say that she was proud.

So three doors off the chaise was stayed,
Where they did all get in ;

Six precious souls, and all agog

To dash through thick and thin.

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels,
Were never folks so glad!

The stones did rattle underneath
As if Cheapside were mad.

John Gilpin at his horse's side

Seized fast the flowing mane,
And up he got in haste to ride,-
But soon came down again;

For saddle-tree scarce reached had he,
His journey to begin,

When, turning round his head, he saw
Three customers come in.

So down he came; for loss of time,
Although it grieved him sore,

Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,
Would trouble him much more.

'Twas long before the customers
Were suited to their mind,

When Betty screaming, came downstairs"The wine is left behind!"'

Each bottle had a curling ear,
Through which the belt he drew,
And hung a bottle on each side,
To make his balance true.

Then over all, that he might be
Equipped from top to toe.

His long red coat, well brushed and neat,
Ile manfully did throw.

Now see him mounted once again
Upon his nimble steed,
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones,
With caution and good heed.

But finding soon a smoother road
Beneath his well-shod feet,
The snorting beast began to trot,
Which galled him in his seat.

So "Fair and Softly," John he cried,
But John he cried in vain ;
That trot became a gallop soon,
In spite of curb and rein.

So stooping down, as needs he must
Who cannot sit upright,

He grasped the mane with both his hands,
And eke with all his might.

His horse, who never in that sort
Had handled been before,
What thing upon his back had got
Did wonder more and more.

Away went Gilpin, neck or nought;
Away went hat and wig;

He little dreamt when he set out,

Of running such a rig.

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly
Like streamer long and gay,
Till loop and button failing both,
At last it flew away.

Then might all people well discern
The bottles he had slung;
A bottle swinging at each side,

As hath been said or sung.

The dogs did bark, the children screamed.
Up flew the windows all;

And every soul cried out, "Well done!"
As loud as he could bawl.

Away went Gilpin-who but he?

His fame soon spread around:

"He carries weight!" "He rides a race! " "'Tis for a thousand pound!"

And still, as fast as he drew near,

'Twas wonderful to view How in a trice the turnpike men

Their gates wide open threw.

And now, as he went bowing down
His reeking head full low,
The bottles twain behind his back
Were shattered at a blow.

Down ran the wine into the road,
Most piteous to be seen,

Which made his horse's flanks to smoke

As they had basted been.

But still he seemed to carry weight,
With leathern girdle braced;
For all might see the bottle-necks
Still dangling at his waist.

Thus all through merry Islington
These gambols he did play,
Until he came unto the Wash

Of Edmonton so gay;

And there he threw the Wash about,

On both sides of the way,

Just like unto a trundling mop,

Or a wild goose at play.

At Edmonton, his loving wife

From the balcony spied

Her tender husband, wondering much

To see how he did ride.

"Stop, stop, John Gilpin !—Here's the house!"'

They all at once did cry ;

"The dinner waits, and we are tired."

Said Gilpin, "So am I!"

But yet his horse was not a whit
Inclined to tarry there;
For why?-his owner had a house
Full ten miles off, at Ware.

So like an arrow swift he flew,
Shot by an archer strong;
So did he fly-which brings me to
The middle of my song.

Away went Gilpin, out of breath,
And sore against his will,
Till, at his friend the calender's,
His horse at last stood still.

The calender amazed to see

His neighbour in such trim,

Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,
And thus accosted him :-

"What news? what news? your tidings tell?

Tell me you must and shall

Say why bareheaded you are come,
Or why you come at all? "

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,
And loved a timely joke;

And thus unto the calender
In merry guise he spoke :-

"I came because your horse would come;

And, if I well forbode,

My hat and wig will soon be here,—
They are upon the road."

The calender, right glad to find
His friend in merry pin,
Returned him not a single word,
But to the house went in ;

Whence straight he came with hat and wig ;
A wig that flowed behind,

A hat not much the worse for wear,
Each comely in its kind.

He held them up, and in his turn
Thus showed his ready wit:

"My head is twice as big as yours,
They therefore needs must fit.

"But let me scrape the dirt away
That hangs upon your face;
And stop and eat, for well you may
Be in a hungry case."

Said John, "It is my wedding day,
And all the world would stare

If wife should dine at Edmonton,
And I should dine at Ware."

So turning to his horse, he said,

"I am in haste to dine;

'Twas for your pleasure you came here,
You shall go back for mine."

Ah! luckless speech, and bootless boast,
For which he paid full dear;
For while he spoke a braying ass
Did sing most loud and clear;
Whereat his horse did snort, as he
Had heard a lion roar,

And galloped off with all his might,
As he had done before.

Away went Gilpin, and away
Went Gilpin's hat and wig:
He lost them sooner than at first,
For why?--they were too big.

Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw
Her husband posting down

Into the country far away,

She pulled out half a crown;

And thus unto the youth she said

That drove them to the Bell,

"This shall be yours, when you bring back

My husband safe and well."

The youth did ride, and soon did meet
John coming back amain

Whom in a trice he tried to stop

By catching at his rein;

But not performing what he meant,
And gladly would have done,
The frighted steed he frighted more,
And made him faster run.

Away went Gilpin, and away

Went postboy at his heels,

The postboy's horse right glad to miss
The lumbering of the wheels.

Six gentlemen upon the road,

Thus seeing Gilpin fly,

With postboy scampering in the rear,
They raised the hue and cry :-

"Stop thief! stop thief!-a highwayman! Not one of them was mute;

And all and each that passed that way
Did join in the pursuit.

And now the turnpike-gates again
Flew open in short space;
The tollmen thinking as before,
That Gilpin rode a race.

And so he did, and won it too,

For he got first to town;

Nor stopped till where he had got up
He did again get down.

The above verses in the handwriting of Cowper were found among Mrs. Unwin's papers, with a drawing, supposed to be by Romney, of Mrs. Gilpin sitting on the top of a gate. The idea seems to be that Mrs. Gilpin having tired waiting for her husband, wandered into the fields, and in an attempt to get over one of those awkward styles for which Enfield was then famous, got upon the top, but could not get down again. The drawing is very ludicrous.

From Hone's Table Book, Vol. II., pp. 79-80.

Quoth young Childe Harold that's well said,
But for, that I'm a man!

Be sure you dɔ not murder me

As you did Sheridan.

Tom Little shook him by the hand,
O'erjoyed was he to find,

That when he went, he meant to leave
His manuscript behind.

The morning came-the Poet went,
And when his life was o'er,
The tale of all his wicked loves
Was left with Tommy Moore.

So, on his table it was laid,

And he turned o'er the leaves;
Two precious volumes all agog,
And thick as any thieves.

Smack went the pen into the ink,
Was never Tom so glad?
His chin did chuckle up and down,
As if his jaws were mad.

From The National Omnibus. April 1, 1831.

Thomas Moore's biography of Lord Byron was severely criticised, both for what it contained and for what it omitted. That Moore, the cherished friend of the great poet, should display all the faults and frailties of Lord Byron was ungenerous and ungrateful, but his ill-judged suppression of certain important matters of fact was far more inexcusable and damaging to Byron's reputation.

THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF MOORE'S LIFE OF BYRON. Shewing how the Poet burnt the original, and afterwards published the copy.

LORD Byron was a nobleman,

Of wonderful renown,

A splendid poet eke was he,
Of famous London Town.

Lord Byron said to Tommy Moore,
Tho' living I have been

At Newstead, ten long years, yet I

No happiness have seen.

To-morrow I shall sail for Greece
And you may then repair
To London (or to Jericho,"
[Aside] for what I care.)

I'll leave my life unto your child,
Whenever I may die;

And mind John Murray pays him well
For my Biography.

Tom Moore replied, I do admire
Of Poet-kind but one-
And you are he, my dearest Lord,
Therefore, it shall be done.

I really am not worth a damn,
As all the world doth know,
But if Lord Byron says I am,
Why, then, it must be so.

A BALLAD MADE FOR THE DELECTATION OF ALL TRUE SPORTSMEN.

PRINCE ALBERT is a sportsman bold,

And eager for the chase,

Out with the hounds, like GILPIN oft
He seems to ride a race.

And oft in Windsor's courtly Park
He loves to ply the gun,

Where hares so well bred are, that they
Up to his muzzle run.

Now when her gracious Majesty

To Stowe a visit paid,

(The newspapers contained a list
Of all the cavalcade.)

Scarce had the royal pair arrived
At BUCKINGHAM'S proud seat,

The Prince began in sportsman's style,
The noble Duke to greet

"What shooting have you here, proud Duke?"
"Shooting, great Prince," he cried,

"Not vainly in my choice preserves

I feel a housewife's pride."

A sporting suit his Highness donn'd,
On murderous thought intent
He sallies forth, his every look
Betrays the sporting gent.

Not far behind, the portly form

Of ROBERT PEEL was seen,

His mind, less sporting than his coat,
Is far away I ween.

Five times ten keepers armed with sticks
Entered in close array,

And beat the cover, where the hares
Like lords in waiting lay.

Once and again PRINCE ALBERT shot,
Once and again shot he;
The hare, that erst on four legs ran,
Now limped away on three.

Each keeper raised his stick and struck

The hare upon the head;

The Prince he shot, the keepers knocked, Until each hare was dead.

Dulce et decorum est, say some,
Pro patria mori,

And 'tis a fine thing for a hare,
By princely hand to die.

'Twas this perhaps the game inspired

To court their Prince's aim,

They died to give PRINCE ALBERT sport,
And therefore they died game.

How many fell The Court Gazette
Better than I may say,

Hares that escaped will live to tell
Their children of that day.

Long live the Game Laws, though with ills
Some people say they're fraught,

Long live the laws by which our Prince
Enjoyed such glorious sport.

Punch. 1845.

THE POLITICAL JOHN GILPIN.

GEORGE BENTINCK was a sporting man
Of credit and renown,

A stud in training eke had he,
For Epsom's famous down.

GEORGE BENTINCK to himself, said he,
Though M. P. I have been

For many years, yet in debate
My name is seldom seen.

JOHN RUSSELL to the Commons goes,
As rumour doth declare,
A bill for Ireland to propose,
And I will meet him there.

There's BORTHWICK, simple as a child,
Myself and DISRAEL(EE);
We'll start the game, and other fools
Are sure to follow we.

I am a rider free and bold,

As all the world doth know,

And my good friend the Railway King
Lends me a dodge or so.

The evening came, the dodge was plann'd,

An Irish railway grant,

And sixteen million little pounds

Was all, they said, they'd want.

SO BENTINCK, HUDSON, BORTHWICK, BEN, The measure did bring in ;

Four precious souls, and all agog

To dash through thick and thin.

Away they rush'd, on went their tongues,
No rest their hearers had;

The speeches seem'd to be composed

Of eloquence run mad.

GEORGE BENTINCK his steam hobby rode
With all his might and main ;

And up he kept himself awhile,
But soon came down again.

Away went BENTINCK, neck or nought,
'Gainst every timid Whig;

They little dreamt when he set out
He would run such a rig.

Some Irish members cheer'd him on ;

Protectionists and all