No-Popery Sermons, in ever so dull a vein,
Sure of a market;—should they too who pen 'em
Be renegade Papists, like Murtagh O'Sullivan,[2]
Something extra allowed for the additional venom.
Funds, Physics, Corn, Poetry, Boxing, Romance,
All excellent subjects for turning a penny;—
To write upon all is an author's sole chance
For attaining, at last, the least knowledge of any.
Nine times out of ten, if his title is good,
The material within of small consequence is;—
Let him only write fine, and, if not understood,
Why—that's the concern of the reader, not his.
Nota Bene—an Essay, now printing, to show,
That Horace (as clearly as words could express it)
Was for taxing the Fund-holders, ages ago,
When he wrote thus—"Quodcunque in Fund is, assess it."
[1] This lady also favors us, in her Memoirs, with the address of those apothecaries, who have, from time to time, given her pills that agreed with her; always desiring that the pills should be ordered "comme pour elle."
[2] A gentleman, who distinguished himself by his evidence before the Irish Committees.
THE IRISH SLAVE.[1]
1827.
I heard as I lay, a wailing sound,
"He is dead—he is dead," the rumor flew;
And I raised my chain and turned me round,
And askt, thro' the dungeon-window, "Who?"
I saw my livid tormentors pass;
Their grief 'twas bliss to hear and see!
For never came joy to them alas!
That didn't bring deadly bane to me.