A dorty huff, a pert rebuff,

A jeft that meant nae harm,
Aft gie fic fkaith, that wouns or death
Maun purge it at Chalk Farm.

Bright wit itfel leads fome to h-11,
(Fa'fe honour's laws fae cruel,)
An' criticifm creates fuch fchifm
As nought can heal but-duel!

Ye Sons of Laer, beware, beware.
Of dealing in duli lead!-
A piftol ba', though it be fina',
May fnap the vital threaty

But gin ye 'll fight as well as write,
Whan ye get in a fcrape,

Tak your difcharge frae thot that 's large--
Anacreon died by-grape.

CHORUS OF REVIEWERS.

T have our brains blown out is pretty fun,
Because an Author happens to have none!

EPIGRAM

ON THE LATE PAPER WAR BETWEEN ANACREON MOORE AND THE EDITOR OF A REVIEW.

WHEN Anacreon would fight, as the poets have said,
A reverfe he difplay'd in his vapour;

For while all his poems were loaded with leal,
His pistols were loaded with paper.

3

Fór

For excufes old custom Anacreon may thank,

The indulgence don't let him abufe;

For the cartridge, you'll own, is always made blank,
That is fir'd away at Reviews!

Bristol.

T. E. H.

THE HIBERNIAN POET. THE CALEDONIAN

CRITIC.

[From the Oracle]

SEND coals to Newcastle," each child may read,
Were, as the proverb teaches, wafte indeed!

So M-re aims papa pellets at that head,

By nature rich-in Caledonian lead.

THE HEROIC POET.

A HIT.

INSCRIBED TO THE MODERN ANACREON.
[From the Oracle.]

Arma virumque cano. VIRGI

ILLUSTRIOUS bard! to whofe foft pen belong
The glowing attributes of odé and fong!
What though thine eye with rage poetic roll,
And words loud thunder, harmless is thy foul!
Who calls thee fierce? on what unjust pretence ?
Thou ne'er kill'dft any thing, but common fense:
None can with truth thy cruelty accufe,
Except, perhaps, a lucklefs fuffering Mufe.
Incongruous mortal! hardly understood,
Verfe without thought, and duel without blood.
In ftrange perverfion, doom'd thy life to run,
Lead in thy brains-but in thy pistol-none !!!

A REVIEWER.

ANACREON.

.

ANACREON.

A SPECIMEN OF A NEW TRANSLATION.

BY OLD NICK.

[From the British Press.]

Eis Luran.-Ode the Firft.

WITH trembling hand I sweep the lyre,

Each tender heart to move,

And wake up all my wanton fire
To fing the feats of love;
But, ah! in vain is my control,
For piftols only fire my foul!

Away I fpurn the recreant lyre,
That all my art destroys,
And feize a foolfcap's fpotlefs quire
To paint love's rapt'rous joys:
But kindle's fates the fheets control,
And into paper pellets roll!

A lyre lefs faithlefs now I choose,
And change each founding ftring,
Then ftrive to roufe my prurient mufe,
And dreams ecftatic fing:

But love no more my lyre controls,
I fing of Critics; d-n their fouls * !

MORE OF ANACREON.

SECOND SPECIMEN OF A NEW TRANSLATION,

*That I may not be deemed a plagiary, I confefs my obligation for these three expreffive words, to the Pindaric mufe of Dr. Walcot, in his chafte, delicate, fublime, and much-improved Ode on Sir Joseph Banks and the Fleas!" Fleas are not lobsters, d— their souls."

† A Hydra, fo called (pupugit latenter Hydrus), and lately difcovered in Scotland. This venomous animal was unknown to ancient

naturalifts.

Love now fans me with those wings
Which fo very aptly suit him,
And then, titt'ring, gaily fings,

"Curfe the Critic, try to fhoot him!"

ON CERTAIN LICENTIOUS POEMS LATELY PUBLISHED.

[From the Morning Herald.]

LISTEN to the voice of love,
Wild boars of Weftphaly;

Your pretty hearts let mufic move—
'Tis Mauro's harmony.

Your ears incline, ye gentle fwine,
While he extols your loves;

For though from you he learn'd to whine,
Yet he the fong improves.

Liften each briftly beau and belle,
And leave the genial tray,
You'll find the Poet's fong excel
Fresh acorns and fweet whey.

O liften to the voice of love,

Ram cats on moonlight tiles;
The minstrel of the lemon grove
Records your Cyprian wiles.

Ye goats, that ply your nimble fhanks

On ancient Penmanmawr,

Bleat him your thanks that fings your pranks,
While fatyrs cry" Encore."

naturalifts. The colour of its fides is blue, its back yellow, and it appears with eight or ten long heavy heads, filled with teeth, exceedingly uneven, and like a thistle, which probably makes the poet mistake its bite for the fcratch of one of thofe rich ornaments of Caledonian fertility. It bears four young ones annually; one every three months. Ritfon, the commentator, died, it is faid, of its bite; and many other of

Nature's Fools" have been grievously tormented by it. However, it is thought by fome, that its attack is very ferviceable; but muft own, that I have found no one who has had this service done him, by any means ready to coincide in the opinion.-No! rather "Judex damnatur;" the Critic is d-d.

And

And all ye Incubi that ride

The nightmare through the gloom,
The chorus fwell-your poet's fhell
Is ftrung from Circe's loom.

And ye deluding fprites that lead
The virgin's step aftray,
If he had died by Critic's ball,
Ye long had ru'd the day.

He trains your imps, and makes them crimps,
Still fresh recruits to mufter:

The old, the young, attend the song,

And to the levy cluster.

Difeafe and Shame applaud his name,
Through all your dark domains,
And all the demons that rejoice
In penalties and pains.

By Circe's art the human heart

Embruted foon fhall be;

And they that once to virtue bow'd,
Shall learn to copy thee.

Z.

SPECIMEN OF BOMBAST.

WRITTEN IN A VERY SULTRY DAY IN AUGUST, [From the General Evening Poft.]

"IS too, too much! the skies in fufion boil!

The molten fun o'erflows with cauftic death!

From e'ery fiffure of the deep-cleft foil

A furnace fteam afcends, and ftops my breath. Where are ye, all ye winds? in what dark cave, Deep in the bowels of the rock-ribb'd earth, Opprefs'd and fetter'd do ye wildly rave,

And strive, importunate, for inftant birth?
Better it were, that, burfting from your rock,
In one mad troop, all nature ye'd deform:

I then, in fome fuug nook, might stand the flock,
And calmly wait the iffue of the ftorm.

But