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ROLLA'S ADDRESS TO THE PERUVIANS.

My brave associates,-Partners of my toil, my feelings, and my fame !-Can Rolla's words add vigour to the virtuous energies which inspire your hearts?—No! you have judged, as I have, the foulness of the crafty plea by which these bold invaders would delude you. Your generous spirit has compared, as mine has, the motives which, in a war like this, can animate their minds and ours. They, by a strange frenzy driven, fight for power, for plunder, and extended rule;-we, for our country, our altars, and our homes. They follow an adventurer whom they fear, and obey a power which they hate; we serve a monarch whom we love, a God whom we adore. Where'er they move in anger, desolation tracks their progress! where'er they pause in amity, affliction mourns their friendship. They boast they come but to improve our state, enlarge our thoughts, and free us from the yoke of error :yes, they will give enlightened freedom to our minds, who are themselves the slaves of passion, avarice, and pride! They offer us their protection :-yes, such protection as vultures give to lambs-covering and devouring them! They call upon us to barter all the good we have inherited and proved, for the desperate chance of something better which they promise! Be our plain answer this: The throne we honour is the people's choice-the laws we reverence are our brave fathers' legacy-the faith we follow, teaches us to live in bonds of charity with all mankind, and die with hopes of bliss beyond the grave. Tell your invaders this; and tell them too, we seek no change; and, least of all, such change as they would bring us!

THE LAWS OF THE ROAD.

The Laws of the Road are a paradox quite ;
For when you are travelling along,

If you keep to the left, you're be sure to be right;
But if you go right, you'll be wrong.

POMPEY'S GHOST.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

Skins may differ, but affection

Dwells in black and white the same.-CowTER.

"Twas twelve o'clock-not twelve at night,
But twelve o'clock at noon;
Because the sun was shining bright,
And not the silver moon.
A proper time for friends to call,
Or pots, or Penny Post;
When lo! as Phoebe sat at work,
She saw her Pompey's ghost!

Now when a female has a call
From people that are dead,
Like Paris ladies, she receives
Her visitors in bed.

But Pompey's spirit could not come
Like spirits that are white,
Because he was a blackamoor,
And would'nt show at night.

But of all unexpected things
That happen to us here,
The most unpleasant is a rise
In what is very dear.

So Phoebe screamed an awful scream,
To prove the seaman's text,
That after black appearances

White squalls will follow next.

"Oh, Phœbe dear! oh, Phoebe dear!
"Don't go to scream or faint;
"You think, because I'm black, I am
"The Devil-but I ain't!

"Behind the heels of Lady Sambo

"I walked while I had breath; "But that is past-and I am now "A walking after Death!

"No murder, though, I come to tell,
"By base and bloody crime;
"So, Phoebe dear, put off your fits
"Till some more fitting time.
"No crowner, like a boatswain's mate,
"My body need attack

"With his round dozen, to find out
"Why I have died so black!
"One Sunday, shortly after tea,
"My skin began to burn,
"As if I had in my inside
"A heater, like the urn.
"Delirious in the night I grew,
"And as I lay in bed,
"They say, I gathered all the wool
"You see upon my head.

"His lordship for his doctor sent,
"My treatment to begin:
"I wish that he had called him out
"Before he called him in!
"For though to physic he was bred,
"And pass'd at Surgeons' Hall;
"To make his post a sinecure,
He never cured at all!

"The doctor look'd about my breast,
"And then about my back;
"And then he shook his head, and said,
"Your case looks very black!'
"And first he sent me hot cayenne,
"And then gamboge to swallow,-
"But still my fever would not turn
"To scarlet nor to yellow!
"With madder and with turmeric
"He made his next attack;
"But neither he nor all his drugs
"Could stop my dying black.
"At last I got so sick of life,

"And sick of being dosed; "One Monday morning I gave up "My physic-and the ghost!

"Oh, Phœbe dear! what pain it was "To sever every tie!

"You know, black beetles feel as much
"As giants when they die.
"And if there is a bridal bed,
"Or bride, of little worth,
"Its lying in a bed of mould,
"Along with mother Earth.
"Alas! some happy, happy day,
"In church I'd hoped to stand,
"And, like a muff of sable skin,
"Receive your lily hand.
"But sternly with that piebald match
"My fate untimely clashes-
"For now, like Pompe-double-i,'
"I'm sleeping in my ashes!

"And now farewell-a last farewell!
"I'm wanted down below,
"And have but time enough to add
"One word before I go :-
"In mourning crape and bombazine
"Ne'er spend your precious pelf-
"Don't go in black for me-for I
"Can do it for myself.

"Henceforth within my grave I 'rest;
"But Death, who there inherits,
"Allowed my spirit leave to come,
"You seemed so out of spirits.
"But do not sigh, and do not cry,
"By grief too much engross'd,—
"Nor, for a ghost of colour, turn
"The colour of a ghost!

"Again farewell! my Phoebe dear!
"Once more a last adieu !

"For I must make myself as scarce

"As swans of sable hue."

From black to grey, from grey to nought,
The shape began to fade,

And, like an egg, though not so white,
The ghost was newly laid

THE FARMER'S BLUNDER.

A farmer once to London went,
To pay the worthy squire his rent;

He comes he knocks-soon entrance gains-
Who at the door such guests detains ?
Forth struts the squire, exceeding smart-
"Farmer, you're welcome to my heart;
"You've brought my rent then ?"-" To a hair.
"The best of tenants I declare."

The steward call'd, accounts made even,
The money's paid, receipt is given.

"Well" quoth the squire," you now shall stay "And dine with me, old friend, to-day; "I've here some ladies wond'rous pretty, "And pleasant sparks too that will fit thee." Hob scratch'd his ears, and held his hat, And said, "No zur; two words to that; "For look, d'ye zee, when I'ze go dine "With gentlefolks zo cruel fine, "I'ze used to make (and 'tis no wonder) "In deed or word some plaguy blunder; "Zo, if your honour will permit, "I'll with your zarvants pick a bit."

"No," says the squire," it shan't be done;"
And to the parlour push'd him on :
To all around Hob nods and scrapes,
Not waiting-man or butler 'scapes.
With often bidding takes his seat,
But at a distance mighty great;
Though often ask'd to draw his chair,
He nods-nor comes an inch more near.
By Madam served, with body bended,
With knife and fork, and arms extended,
He reach'd, as far as he was able,
To a plate that overhung the table;
With little morsels cheats his chops,
And in the passage some he drops.
To show where most his heart inclin'd,
He talk'd and drank to John behind.

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