And, though he left the door unshut, He sought the lonely hill. He look'd upon the lovely moon, He look'd upon the twinkling stars; But misery overcame his heart, For all was waste and war within We found him when the morning sun Upon his back he was afloat His hat was sailing like a boat- Oh, reckless woman, Susan Foy, To leave the poor, old, loving man, To India or Japan. Poor Billy Blinn, with hair so white, Poor Billy Blinn was stiff and cold; Will Adze he made a coffin neat, We placed him in it head and feet, I dare say you will suppose that there is no end to my prosing. But hold, my pen!-For the present I am determined to have done. As to Southey, Lamb, Milman, Croly, Shelley, Wastle, Wilson, Campbell, Hunt, Montgomery, Bowles, Dr. Scott, Frere, Rogers, Bloomfield, Herbert, Thurlow, Willison Glass, &c., you shall have more of them in my next; and meantime believe me, more than ever has been yet professed by Yours, &c. COLERAINE, Red Cow Inn, April 30. VOL. I.-11 MORGAN ODoherty. FAMILIAR LETTER FROM THE ADJUTANT. And, though he left the door unshut, He sought the lonely hill. He look'd upon the lovely moon, He look'd upon the twinkling stars; But misery overcame his heart, For all was waste and war within We found him when the morning sun Upon his back he was afloat His hat was sailing like a boat- Oh, reckless woman, Susan Foy, To leave the poor, old, loving man, To India or Japan. Poor Billy Blinn, with hair so white, Poor Billy Blinn was stiff and cold; Will Adze he made a coffin neat, We placed him in it head and feet, 241 I dare say you will suppose that there is no end to my prosing. But hold, my pen!-For the present I am determined to have done. As to Southey, Lamb, Milman, Croly, Shelley, Wastle, Wilson, Campbell, Hunt, Montgomery, Bowles, Dr. Scott, Frere, Rogers, Bloomfield, Herbert, Thurlow, Willison Glass, &c., you shall have more of them in my next; and meantime believe me, more than ever has been yet professed by Yours, &c. MORGAN ODoherty. COLERAINE, Red Cow Inn, April 30. VOL. I.-11 There's not a Joy that Life can_give,* &c. 1. There's not a joy that WINE can give like that it takes away, 'Tis not that youth's smooth cheek its blush surrenders to the nose, 2. Then the few, who still can keep their chairs amid the smash'd decanters, Who wanton still in witless jokes, and laugh at pointless banters The magnet of their course is gone-for, let them try to walk, Their legs, they speedily will find as jointless as their talk. 3. Then the mortal hotness of the brain, like hell itself, is burning, It cannot feel, nor dream, nor think-'tis whizzing, blazing, turning- And if by chance we're weeping drunk, each drop our cheek-bone scars. 4. Though fun still flow from fluent lips,† and jokes confuse our noddles Through midnight hours, while punch our powers insidiously enfuddles, 'Tis but as ivy leaves were worn by Bacchanals of yore, To make them still look fresh and gay while rolling on the floor. 5. Oh! could I walk as I have walk'd, or see as I have seen; Or even roll as I have done on many a carpet green As port at Highland inn seems sound, all corkish though it be, So would I the Borachio kiss, and get blind drunk with thee.‡ *The actual title of these "Stanzas for Music" (as they are called in Byron's Poems,) is not correctly given here. The first stanza runs thus: "There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away, When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay; 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, These lines bear date March, 1815.-M. † The ipsisima verba are "Though wit may flash from fluent lips." — -M. This parody was put into Byron's mouth, as chanted by him at the sympo sium with Odoherty, at Pisa, in July, 1822. M. 'Tis in vain to complain. 1. 'Tis in vain To complain, In a melancholy strain, Of the days that are gone, and will never come again. While we may, At whatever time of day, Be our locks berry brown, or mottled o'er with gray, 2. We have laughed, We have quaffed, We have raked it fore and aft, But out of pleasure's bowl have not emptied all the draught. Never mind Days behind, But still before the wind, Float after jolly souls, full flasks, and lasses kind, Chanson a Boire. 1. Time and we should swiftly pass; He the hour-glass, we the glass. Drink! yon beam which shines so bright Soon will sink in starless night: Ere it sink, boys, ere it sink Drink it dim, boys! drink, drink, drink! 2. Drink before it be too late Snatch the hour you may from fate; Here alone true wisdom lies, To be merry 's to be wise. Ere ye sink, boys-ere ye sink Drink ye blind, boys! drink, drink, drink!† * This appeared in THE NOCTES, for August, 1823. — M. From THE NOCTES, March, 1823. — M. Song of a Fallen Angel over a Bowl of Rum-Punch. By T. M., Esq. HEAP on more coal there, And keep the glass moving, Though my heart glows with loving. Here's the dear creature, No skylights-a bumper; He who leaves heeltaps I vote him a mumper. With hey cow rumble O Whack! populorum, Merrily, merry men, Push round the jorum. What are Heaven's pleasures In long or short metre. Met to make speeches. With hey cow ruble, &c. Wide is the difference, My own boozing bullies, Here the round punch-bowl Thinks that up "yonder" Is pleasant as we are, With hey cow rumble, &c.t * The Celtic Society, at their annual dinner, always wore the kilt. — M. First published in THE NOCTES for July, 1823. It is a parody on Mooreand not a very good one. M. |