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SIR MARMADUKE.
GEORGE COLMAN“ the younger," born 1762, died 1836.
Sir MARMADUKE was a hearty knight;

Good man! old man !
He's painted standing bolt upright,

With his hose rolld over his knee ;
His perriwig 's as white as chalk !
And on his fist he holds a hawk,
And he looks like the head

Of an ancient family.
His dining-room was long and wide;

Good man! old man !
His spaniels lay by the fire-side ;-

And in other parts, d'ye see
Cross-bows, tobacco-pipes, old hats,
A saddle, his wife, and a litter of cats;
And he look'd like the bead

Of an ancient family.
He never turn’d the poor from the gate;

Good man! old man !
But was always ready to break the pate

Of his country's enemy.
What knight could do a better thing,
Than serve the poor, and fight for his king ?
And so may every head

Of an ancient family.
From the play of the “Iron Chest," founded upon Godwin's novel of “ Caleb

Williams."

CONTENT AND A PIPE.
CONTENTED I sit with my pint and my pipe,

Puffing sorrow and care far away,
And surely the brow of grief nothing can wipe

Like smoking and moist'ning our clay ;
For, though liquor can banish man's reason afar,

'Tis only a fool or a sot,
Who with reason or sense would be ever at war,

And don't know when enough he has got
For, though at my simile many may joke,
Man is but a pipe--and his life but smoke.

Yes, a man and a pipe are much nearer akin

Than has as yet been understood,
For, until with breath they are both fill'd within,

Pray tell me for what are they good ?
They, one and the other, composed are of clay,

And, if rightly I tell nature's plan,
Take but the breath from them both quite away,

The pipe dies—and so does the man:
For, though at my simile many may joke,
Man is but a pipe—and his life but smoke.

Thus I'm told by my pipe that to die is man's lot,

And, sooner or later, die he must;
For when to the end of life's journey he's got,

Like a pipe that's smoked out-he is dust :
So you, who would wish in your hearts to be gay.

Encourage not strife, care, or sorrow, Make much of your pipe of tobacco to-day,

For you may be smoked out to-morrow : For, though at my simile many may joke, Man is but a pipe-and his life but smoke.

WHAT IS’T TO US WHO GUIDES THE STATE?

From the “ Convivial Songster," 1782.

What is't to us who guides the state?
Who's out of favour, or who's great?
Who are the ministers or spies?
Who votes for places, or who buys?

The world will still be ruled by knaves,
And fools contending to be slaves.
Small things, my friend, serve to support
Life-troublesome at best, and short.

Our youth runs out, occasion flies,
Grey hairs come on, and pleasure dies;
Who would the present blessing lose
For empire which he cannot use?

Kind Providence has us supplied
With what to others is denied;
Virtue, which teaches to condemn
And scorn ill actions and ill men.

Beneath this lime-tree's fragrant shade,
On beds of flowers supinely laid,
Let's then, all other cares remove,
And drink and sing to those we love.

ABRAHAM NEWLAND.

Anonymous. From the “Whim of the Day"-a Collection of Songs for 1800.

THERE ne'er was a name so handed by fame,
Thro' air, thro' ocean, and thro' land,
As one that is wrote upon every bank note,
And you all must know Abrabam Newland.

O, Abraham Newland!

Notified Abraham Newland!
I have heard people say, sham Abraham you may,
But you must not sham Abraham Newland.

For fashion or arts should you seek foreign parts,
It matters not wherever you land,
Jew, Christian, or Greek, the same language they speak,
That's the language of Abraham Newland.

0, Abraham Newland !

Wonderful Abraham Newland! Tho' with compliments cramm’d, you may die and be d-d, If you hav'n't an Abraham Newland.

The world is inclin'd to think Justice is blind,
Lawyers know very well they can view land;
But, lord, what of what? she'll blink like a bat,
At the sight of an Abraham Newland.

O, Abraham Newland !

Magical Abraham Newland!
Tho' Justice 'tis known can see through a millstone,
She can't see through Abraham Newland.

Your patriots who bawl for the good of us all,
Kind souls! here like mushrooms they strew land,
Tho' loud as a drum, each proves orator mum,
If attack'd by stout Abraham Newland.

0, Abraham Newland !

Invincible Abraham Newland !
No argument's found in the world half so sound
As the logic of Abraham Newland.

The French say they're coming, but sure they are humming;
I know what they want if they do land;
We'll make their ears ring in defence of our King,
Our country, and Abraham Newland.

0, Abraham Newland !

Darling Abraham Newland !
No tri-colour'd elf, nor the devil himself,
Shall e'er rob us of Abraham Newland.

Mr. Abraham Newland was cashier at the Bank of England towards the close of the

last century.

THE GUINEA.

Froin the “Whim of the Day" for 1801.

MASTER Abraham Newland's a monstrous good man,
But when you've said of him whatever you can,
Why all his soft paper would look very blue,
If it warn't for the yellow boys-pray what think you ?

With Newland's own letters of credit proceed,
Pray what would you do where the people can't read?
But the worst of all dunces, we know very well,
Only show them a guinea, I warrant they'll spell.

Then your lawyers, and doctors, and such sort of folks,
Who with fees and such fun, you know, never stand jokes,
In defence of my argument try the whole rote,
Sure they'll all take a guinea before a pound note.

The French would destroy all our credit and trade,
If they were not unable, asham'd, or afraid.
They may talk of our King, but let who will be victor,
They'd be dev'lish glad to get hold of his picture.

From a picture like this we true Britons can't part,
While the glorious original reigns in our heart;
Besides, with such tars as our navy can boast,
And our king and his picture, we must rule the roast.

"TWAS MERRY IN THE HALL.

Our ancient English melodies

Are bapish'd out of doors,
And nothing's heard in modern days,
But Signoras and Signors.

Such airs I hate

Like a pig in a gate,
Give me the good old strain,

When 'twas merry in the hall,

The beards waggʻd all,
We shall never see the like again!

On beds of down our dandies lay,

And waste the cheerful morn,
While our squires of old would raise the day,
With the sound of the bugle horn;

And their wives took care

The feast to prepare,
For when they left the plain,

Oh! 'twas merry in the hall,

The beards wagg’d all,
We shall never see the like again!

'Twas then the Christmas tale was told

Of goblin, ghost, or fairy,
And they cheer'd the hearts of the tenants old
With a cup of good canary.

And they each took a smack
of the cold black-jack,

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