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POETRY.

TO LONGDON COTTAGE.*

'OLD Foguey Toft!' why, what assurance l
Impertinent past all endurance!

Thou little, snivelling, sneaking cottage,
With mean and washy mess of pottage,
Fit only for thy wretched self,
Thou shabby miserable elf!

You ragged lath and-plaister cabin,
Not fit to put the vilest drab in-
You cobler's stall-tho' not so big-
You stye-too small to hold a pig-
You dirty shed-you squalid hut,
Not large enough for Lilliput !

You six-feet high, you three-feet square,
You filthy hovel-you to dare,

With scrambling scrawl and scurvy letters,
To slander and revile your betters,

Because you've just been white-wash'd o'er,
A few green posts before the door,

With bits of pale-fac'd paltry paling,
You impudently call a railing!

And when by grubbing, washing, rubbing

With mop, and pail, and brush, and scrubbing,

To clean your dirty floor you seek,

And make you decent once a week,

You just, forsooth, and play your tricks,

And talk of guests and number six;

Ask all that's handsome, fair, and comely,
The Talbots, Curzons, Lady Bromley-

These verses were written by Hugh Leicester, Esq. in consequence of a letter which he received when at Toft, in Cheshire, from Mr. Lane,† inviting him to leave Id Foguey Toft,' and partake of a mess of pottage at Longdon Cottage, to meet the Talbots, Curzons, Lady Bromley, &c. January 21, 1799. *John Lane, Esq. Barrister, of Lincoln's Inn, who resides at a rented cottage in the pleasant village of Longdon, near the city of Litchfield, Staffordshire, letting his own noble and vicinant mansion of Bromley-Regis to Lord Grey.

Thrust them all in-by dint of squeezing,
And hardly leave them room for sneezing!

So tight and close they're push'd, and ramm'd,

And press'd, and pinch'd, and stuff'd, and cramm'd;
And when they've all been stew'd and smoak'd

The wonder is-they were not choak'd!
You're pert, and proud, and vain, you sinner,
And call it-giving them a dinner!
And then, however strange, 'tis true,
You're in a Lane, a Lane's in you;
And those two Lanes as like each other
As Brother ever was to Brother-
A long and narrow Lane's a-kin

To a Lane that's lean and lank and thin;
And each, methinks, much worn appears-
One Lane by Carts, and one by Years :
And what distinction can be put
Between a wrinkle and a rut?

Then both these Lanes, alike we know,
To Litchfield and King's-Bromley go--
Both have their coats-but they who travel
Prefer, no doubt, the coat of gravel:
Tho' when they're deep in thought or clay,
They both are gravell'd in their
way-
Tho' mire and sludge one Lane may cover,
It is not easy to discover,

After a hunt in wind and rain,

Which of them is the dirtiest Lanc.

To touch these Lanes you'd not be glad,
The ways of both are grown so bad;
Heavy both at times, and flashy too-
But here they differ-one, 'tis true,
The parish ends by public call,
The other-never mends at all :
Tho' you may safely tread on one,
The other won't be trampled on.
In other points such perfect twins,

So like their virtues, faults, and sins;

In choice there never can be wrong done

'Twixt Longdon Lane and Lane of Longdon.

EPIGRAM :

ADDRESSED TO A DISCIPLE OF GALEN AND AN ILLEGITIMATE SON OF THE MUSIS, ON

THEIR HAVING QUARRELLED ON SOME TRIFLING OCCASION.

YOU'RE faulty both,-do penance for your crimes ;—
Bard, take his physic-Doctor, read his rhymes.

THE SORTIE.*

PROUD of the glowing ardour in my breast,
Too full to hide, too great to be exprest

In such bold language as the cause requires.—
None can succeed, but whom the Muse inspires.
Yet if the FIRST,† (for scarce six hours are o'er,
Since my brave comrades storm'd the hostile shore)—
- Brothers in arms-indulgence must be found
For one who never glean'd on classic ground.

To thee, brave Ross, I dedicate these lines,
For none superior in the subject shines;
Receive-and what of merit they may claim,
Let it be sanction'd with thy honour'd name;
Whilst gratitude induces me to own,

Hadst thou not chose, the Bard had been unknown.
Th' approaching works, of vast and varied forms,
T'annoy by shot, or cover threaten'd storms;
The pond'rous efforts of two arduous years,
By slaughter bought, in magnitude appears.
Chief of the Foe!-the DON ALVAREZ † nam'd,
Whose mighty deeds his country loud proclaim'd;-
Swell'd by the praises of the senseless crowd,
The fool, in thought, his consequence allow'd:
'I come §-I conquer-by my noble birth,
So great a General lives not on the earth !"
In words like these, he made success his own-
The phanton vanish'd, and he lives unknown.

How could he write what his opponents gain'd,
When torpid indolence his honour stain'd?
The watchful dreads to think his post securé,
Lest martial fame should a foul check endure;
The keen, with eagle eyes, all failings see,
Then boldly seize an opportunity.

Could faults like his escape an ELLIOT's mind,

Where caution is with penetration join'd?

This Poem was commenced in the morning of the sally made from the Garrison of Gibraltar, Nov. 27, 1781, under the command of Brigadier-Ge neral Ross, Colonel of the 72d Regiment, or Royal Manchester Volunteers. After the Congratulations on the South Parade.

The Spanish General, who lost his command in consequence of this sally. The Spanish Gazettes were full of his certainty of reducing the Garrison.

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ALVAREZ, no! tho' far the weaker side,

He stole thy laurels, and o'erthrew thy pride.

The day had pass'd, as months had pass'd before,
While hostile cannons kept a constant roar;
Our watchful Chief, who ev'ry suff'ring shares,
In his own mind the ways and means prepares;
A council calls--he told what he had form'd,
And that the batteries should that night be storm'd.
I call you for approval-not advice-

And fix the tour in duty-not in choice,

For my heart tells me, when our Order's known,
Each inan would grieve to say he was not one.
The whole approv'd, good Hugo led the van,
Germania never rear'd a braver man,

So when our country's good requires our aid,
The columns act, in conscious strength array'd;
Close in the ranks the soldiers dare the ball,
Nor dread ev'n death at Honour's sacred call;
But, as their leaders point, pursue the way,
And with destructive cheerfulness obey:
True to each piece, their bayonets they fix,
And midst the foe the daring soldiers mix,

To arms! to arms! the Spanish drummers beat-
To arms! to arms!' the distant guards repeat.
Throughout their camps lights flitted to and fro,
Their men, distracted, knew not what to do;
Confus'd and paraliz'd the thousands were,
And, like their Chief, disorganiz'd by fear.

Three thund'ring cheers, loud as a storm-charg'd sky,
Made Calpe's womb re-echo VICTORY!'
Whilst in their works the steady flankers stand,
With shoulder'd arms, to guard the working band;
The 12th and Hardenberg's compose the rear,

As on parade these hardy troops appear;
Full often had they fought in Glory's tide,
Admir'd as heroes by the conquer'd side?

On Minden's plains three charges they withstood,
And stain'd the ground with streams of Gallic blood.

The busy sailors, with the pioneers,

Tear from their base the lofty chandeliers:

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* The Orders began. Not one volunteer to be allowed.' These regiments had their colours out, under which they made, with other regiments of infantry, that glorious stand at Minden.

Acting artificers as pioneers, under a Lieutenant in the Navy, and some engineers.

Or from the fascines the dead sand-bags throw,
Forceful to aid the dire impending blow.

Th' artillerists next, (those mortal foes of Spain !)
Devils for conflagration in their train,

With brittle tubes their pond'rous guns annoy,
And all their instruments of war destroy.

The signal giv'n, fell conflagration flies,

And chains of fire from the torn works arise.+
The vast expanse with such rich colours glow'd,
In such bright gleam the hostile mountains shew'd;
That Titian's col'ring never could excel-
For colours ne'er could mix, to paint so well:
Whilst loud explosions from each magazine, ‡
Rising terrific! aggrandiz'd the scene.

No longer now we hail in reg'lar cheers,
But shouts incessant gall the Spaniards' ears:
From North to South how gloriously it burns!”
And from the South the welcome greet returns.-
Thus, with a daring hand, I touch the lyre,
More proud of martial than poetic fire;
And having told th' effect of fire and steel,
I change the theme-to that blest sense-to feel.
The man who for his country dares to die,
Is not less gifted in humanity

Than the best hearts in city or on plain,
That, fearful, tremble at another's pain-
Yields more real honour to the poor on earth,
Than all the pageants which proceed from birth.
And thou, Iberia! let thy praise be giv`n,
For mercy is the attribute of Heav'n.'
The vanquish'd ever are a Briton's care-
Nature that forms him valiant-bids him spare.
Mercy benign! to sordid breasts unknown,
In brightest garb adorns Britannia's throne.
ELLIOT and Ross with the same feelings glow,
And ev'ry pris'ner finds a generous foe.

Spare! spare!'-to spare was ev'ry leader's cry,
Tell them they're safe, and let their terrors fly."

Combustibles, with spikes, to make them hang upon the wooden chan

deliers.

After the works were sufficiently dismantled, they were ordered to be fired, and an instant three miles of batteries, including lines of approach, were in a blaze.

Every gun and mortar spiked, and five-pounder magazines, successively blew up as the troops re-entered the garrison.

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