Brogs an' brochen an"a',
Brochen an' brogs an' a';

An' up wi' the bonny blue bonnet
The kilt, an' the feather, an' a'.

THE GALLIC BANTAM, AND BRITISH MASTIFF.

I

A NEW SONG.-1807.

Tune-" St. George he was for England.”

From the Literary Panorama.

SING a famous fighting cock,
Who, tho' of dunghill breed, sir,
And bantam size, full many a prize
In fighting for, succeeds, sir.

He puts to shame each mighty name
Of ancient Rome and Greece, sir,
Who countries sav'd, and then enslav'd;
And turn'd his swans to geese, sir.

This blustering blade directly made
His dunghill all his own, sir;
And neighb'ring fowl began to scowl,
Lest their's should be o'erthrown, sir.

He sooth'd their ears, and lull'd their fears;
But soon they saw their error,

And found he'd wrest what they possess'd,
By treaty, or by terror.

Our cock the loftiest titles took,

King Vulture's, * Emp'ror Eagle's;
While dogs of war, both near and far,
Crouch'd down, like arrant beagles.

A Prussian goose play'd fast and loose,
In hope to share the plunder;
At length the cock gave him a shock,
That brought him fairly under.

With Pope and Turk he made such work
As threw them on their knees, sir;
And now the cross and crescent vie
Which most this cock shall please, sir.

A bull-dog staunch once seiz'd his haunch,
And tore his pinions shorter;

"Hold, hold," he cried, "I'll keep the land,"
"And you shall keep the water.".

"I'm chanticleer, your friend, whene'er
"You stand in need of favour:"
Then stalk'd away, as who should say,
"Now mind your good behaviour!"

He thought John Bull so gross a fool,
That he'd approve the notion;
And then, whene'er his wings had grown,
He'd plunge him in the ocean.

The bull-dog bold let go his hold,
He was not bloody-minded,

Then bask'd at length his hairy strength,
And in the sun reclin'd it.

This to his slaves, less fools than knaves,
The bantam did disclose, sir;
O ho, quoth he, dog though he be,
We'll strut before his nose, sir;

And then he crow'd so very loud,

He broke the bull-dog's slumbers;
Who struts he mark'd, and fiercely bark'd,
At him and all his numbers.

Yet still this cock affects to mock
At teeth and claws, ('tis true, sir)
Although they tore his wing before,
And made him cry parbleu! sir.

* By Pope, seems to be meant, an animal that has two horns like a lamb, and a vai like a dragon. By Turk, the author probably intended a turkey cock.

DEHOLD, my friend, o'er Europe's hapless land,
Almighty vengeance stretch its iron hand;

Its impious agent ev'ry realm enthral,

And with wide wasting carnage cover all.

The human fiend, each day, each hour he lives,

Still to the world some baleful evil gives.

Oh, when he dies, what shouts shall shake the sphere!
New suns shall shine and double moons appear;
Death thro' the world one holiday shall make,
And hell get drunk with sulphur for his sake!
His throne a pile of human sculls sustains,
And bones that fell on those unhappy plains,
Where pale Toulon lay prest beneath her dead,
Where Lodi fought and fell Marengo bled.
Professing ev'ry faith, he mocks his God,
And virtue trembles underneath his nod.
The nations, crouching round, his pomp adorn;
Britannia sits apart, and smiles in scorn;
Calm and unharm'd amidst his impious ire,
While trembling millions from the strife retire.
So round some cliff when now the tempest roars,
And the weak Linnet downward turns her oars,
The royal Eagle, from his craggy throne,
Mounts the loud storm majestic and alone,
And steers his plumes athwart the dark profound,
While roaring thunders replicate around!
But now, rous'd slowly from her opiate bed,
Lethargic Europe lifts the heavy head;

Feels round her heart the creeping torpor close,
Aud starts with horror from her dire repose,
3 R 2

Favour'd

* Favour'd by heaven, let Britons bend the kuce,
And thank that awful Pow'r who keeps us free;
Own Him our strength, on Him repose our all,
Sedate in triumph, and resign'd to fall.

THE HORRORS OF WAR:

A POETICAL TRANSLATION OF A LETTER OF A CERTAIN GREAT
PERSONAGE TO THE KING OF FRUSSIA.

From Dr. Thornton's Temple of Flora.

To Frederick the Great, king of Prussia,

WHI

HILE conquest seats you on the throne of fame,
And martial deeds immortalize your name,
On burnish'd arms while glory brightly beams,
And fields victorious fill the monarch's dreanis;
Trembling I view whence all that glory springs
Which crowns the awful brows of hero-kings;
Shock'd I behold the source whence dart those rays
Which shine on victors, and round conqu'rors blaze;
And, fondly anxious praises to bestow,
Reluctant swell the stream of general woe;

For e'en those laurels which your brows entwine,
Your triumphs crown, and bid your conquests shine,
Meant as inmortal trophies to adorn,

Were from my country's bleeding bowels torn.
While in what's truly brave, and greatly bold,
You outstrip heroes dignify'd of old;

My native Mecklenburgh, a prey to arms,

In desolation finds her ruin'd charms:

No more her plains their plenteous verdure yield,
No longer Ceres decks the golden field;

Through

Favour'd by heaven, let Britons bend the knee.]—I think I may say (but meekly let me say it, and with awful reverence), that Providence watches over this empire with an eye of peculiar regard. England seems to be solemnly selected and delegated to interpose a barrier between partial subversion and universal anarchy: to punish the punishers of nations; to heal the wounds of agonizing Europe, and to sit like a wakeful nurse, watching at her side, and administering to her lips the medicine of salvation. We stand on a noble, but a dreadful elevation; responsible in ourselves for the future happiness of the human race. We have a spirit, a constitution, and a religion: unrival led, unparalleled, unprecedented. From these sources I draw my politics, and these tell me, we shall triumph. The red right hand of Providence is every where visible, Even at this moment it is performing the promised work of Papal Extirpation. Per severe then, Britons, in the mighty task before you. To recede from it were ruin. Be firm, and you triumph-fear, and you fall.

Then princess of Mecklenburg, now Queen of England, imploring relief from the ⚫ppressions of the military then quartered on the Mecklenburg territory.

Through all her bounds dark scenes of horror rise,
Despair's loud yell, and sorrow's frantic cries.

Conscious I am, great sire, the patriot's theme
In my weak sex may unbecoming seem;
For, in an age so viciously refin'd,
By folly blinded, to caprice resign'd,
Perhaps you deem the very name of arms,
The thought of rapine, and of war's alarms,
Of slaughter by contending armies made,
Of burnish'd swords in deathful feats display'd,
Of mourning widows, and of bleeding swains,
Of burning towns, and desolated plains,-
Perhaps you deem such themes were ne'er design'd
To occupy the tender female mind;
Ordain'd to study only how to please,
And court the prospect of domestic ease:
Yet oh! forgive, while patriot virtue fires,
And soft humanity the strain inspires:
Forgive, great sire, if sorrowing I unfold
Each dismal scene which my sad eyes behold;
And, while the natives of my country bleed,
The cause of suff'ring worth I dare to plead.

The radiant sen rolls on its swift career,
But not remote beam'd forth that joyful year,
When o'er proud Mecklenburgh's belov'd domain
Fair plenty smil'd on every fertile plain :
The placid months serenely fled away,

The fields were fruitful and the groves were gay.
But now, alas! my streaming sorrows flow,
Now, my dear country is one scene of woe;
Depopulation makes a frightful void,
The peasant flies, or lingering is destroy'd:
Where'er, in anguish, roll my aching eyes,
All the dire horrors of the war arise;
The devastations of the martial train,
With streaming gore empurple ev'ry plain:
With native blood the swollen rivers glide,
And to the ocean roll a crimson tide;
While into camps the fertile fields are made,
And thickest woods can scarce from danger shade;
Woods where afflicted families retire,

To shun the slaught'ring sword or raging fire.
In vain they seek their weary eyes to close;
Or if exhausted strength induce repose,
Oppressive terrors agitate the soul,
And fancy hears the battle's thunder roll.
3 R3

A famish'd