As our Presidents, Governors, and other great men, fail not to have their speeches published for the amusement and edification of the public, we think it but fair that the Printer's Devil, who “only duns on New Year's Day,” shoula enjoy the same immunity: particularly as be labours all the rest of the year for the benefit of others:- Let us always give the Devil his due.-ILL. GAZ.
At Shawnee, when the cash was low,
When merchants must their gains forego,
Dull, dull as winter was the flow,
of paper passing currently.
But Shawnee saw another sight,
When State Bank paper came to light,
Redeeming debtors from the night
Of dreary dark insolvency.
Then shook our sides with laughter riven,
'Then merchants were to shaving driven,
And lawyers starv'd, who erst had thriven,
By ruin, wreck, and misery.
But brighter yet the smiles shall glow
On Shawnee's plain of virgin snow,
And kindlier yet the torrent flow
Of paper, passing currently,
The Printers gather near and far,
The poet's notes, that
The Pressman grasps the massy bar,
And issues paper fearlessly.
The CARRIER brings you, fresh and wet,
Each Saturday a new Gazette,
And gloomy mortals cease to fret,
Amid a maze of novelty.
"Tis morn; the olden year has fled,
Another rises in its stead,
And courteous John, with silent tread,
Paces the village rapidly.
The Printer's Devil! John has long
Trod Shawnee's streets and lanes among,
Advertisements, and news, and song,
Ranged in his columns decently,
If marriages or deaths prevail,
Or rumour mount the western gale
Of great events-he brings the tale,
And spreads it with alacrity.
FOL. 11.NO, 2.
92
Who knows if Alexander reigns-
If France has burst her British chains-
If Andalusia's sunny plains
Glow with the light of liberty
When Brougham spoke, or Byron wrote,
Or Wellington had got the gout,
How would the matter have come out,
Except through his civility?
John told you when Imperial Nap
Slept in Helena's flinty lap;
Disclos'd, at large, the sad mishap
In England's Royal Family.
Nor failed the glorious news to bring,
When George " looked every inch a king,"
Royal “ from chine to chitterling,"
The pink of modern chivalry!
How London's Mayor was made a knight,
And Scotia's bard described the sight,
And Erin's goblets sparkled bright,
With Erin's hospitality.
Erin the land of love and song!
Forgot her chains, and joined the throng,
That sealed with praises loud and long,
The downfal of her liberty!
Erin! the land of love and wine!
Like Israel's flock, forsook her shrine,
And bade the holy shamrock twine
The calf of base idolatry!
Nor this alone-his weekly round,
The CARRIER went with took profound,
Though torrents pour'd and tempests frowned;
His paper, passing currently. And Shawnee's sons have read the lore, That ne'er had beam'd on Shawnee's shore, Had John been sick, or John been sore,
Or slept too late on Saturday. Such are his toils through heat and cold, Nor need his patrons now be told, That 'tis a custom sage and old,
TO PAY for his fidelity.
How oft our Editors display,
Their talents in the dunning way!
John only duns on NEW YEAR'S DAY,
And then with meek huinility.
My song is o'er. Aproach ye brave,
Nor seek your paper cash to save!
Wave, Shawnee, all your purses wave,
That Jolin may join your revelry.
Few days until again we meet,
Fresh news shall fill my spreading sheet;
To every door the Carrier's feet,
Again shall bear bim willingly.
In evil hour, and with unhallow'd voice
Profaning the pure gift of Poesy,
Did he begin to sing, he first who sung
Of arms, and combats, and the proud array
Of warriors on the embattled plain, and rais'd
The aspiring spirit to hopes of fair renown
By deeds of violence. For since that tiine
The imperious Victor, oft, unsatisfied
With bloody spoil and tyrannous conquest, dares
To challenge fame and honour; and too oft
The Poet bending low to lawless power
Hath paid unseemly reverence, yea, and brought
Streams, clearest of the Aonian fount, to wash
Blood-stain'd Ambition. If the stroke of War
Fell certain on the guilty head, none else;
If they that make the cause might taste the effect,
And drink themselves the bitter cup they mix,
Then might the Bard, (though child of Peace) delight
To twine fresh wreaths around the Conqueror's brow,
Or haply strike bis high-toned harp to swell
The trumpet's martial sound, and bid them on,
Whom Justice arms for vengeance: but alas!
That undistinguishing and deathful storm
Beats heaviest on the exposed innocent;
And they that stir its fury, while it raves,
Stand at safe distance; send their mandate forth
Unto the mortal ministers that wait
To do their bidding; - Ah, who then regards
The widow's tears, the friendless orphan's cry,
And Famine, and the ghastly train of woes,
That follow at the dogged heels of War?
They in the pomp and pride of victory
Rejoicing, o'er the desolated earth,
As at an altar wet with human blood,
And flaming with the fire of cities burn't,
Sing their mad hymns of triumph, hymns to God
O'er the destruction of his gracious works,
Hymns to the Father o'er his slaughter'd sons.
Detested be their sword, abhorr’d their name,
And scorn'd the tongues that praise them!
ANDREW JONES.
By Wordsworth.
I hate that Andrew Jones: he'll bring
His children up to waste and pillage.
I wish the press gang, or the drum
With its tantara sound would come
And sweep him from the village. I said not this, because he loves
Through the day long to swear and tipple; But for the poor, dear sake of one, To whom a foul deed he has done
A friendless man, a travelling cripple. For this poor, crawling, helpless wretch,
Some horseman who was passing by, A penny from his purse had thrown; But the poor cripple was alone,
And could not stoop-no help was nigh. Inch thick the dust lay on the ground,
For it had long been droughty weather;
So with his staff the cripple wrought
Among the dust, till he had brought
The half-pennies together.
It chanced that Andrew pass'd that way
Just at the time: and there he found
The cripple, in the mid-day heat,
Standing alone
and at his feet, He saw the
penny on the ground. He stoop'd and took the penny up;
And when the cripple nearer drew,
Quoth Andrew, “under half a crown,
What a man finds is all his own
And so my friend, good day to you."
And hence I said that Andrew's boys
Would all be traind to waste and pillage
And wish'd the press-gang or the drum
With its tantara sound would come
And sweep him from the village.
CUMNOR HALL. The ballad of Cumpor Hall was first printed in Evan's Collection of Old Ballads, edit. 1784, vol. iv. with the antique spelling of queen Elizabeth's period.- In a subsequent edition of this interesting work, in 1810, the poem was modernized, and from that, the copy has been taken which is now presented to the reader:
The dews of summer night did fall,
The moon, sweet regent of the sky,
Silver'd the walls of Cumnor Hall,
And many an oak that grew thereby.
Now nought was heard beneath the skies,
The sounds of busy life were still;
Save an unhappy lady's sighs,
That issued from that lonely pile.
“Leicester," she cried, " is this thy love
That thou so oft has sworn to me,
To leave me in this lonely grove,
Immured in shameful privity?
“No more thou com’st with lover's speed,
Thy once beloved bride to see;
But be she alive, or be she dead,
I fear, stern Earl's, the same to thee.
« Not so the
usage
I receiv'd
When happy in my
father's hall:
No faithless husband then me griev'd;
No chiding fears did me appal.
“I rose up with the cheerful morn,
No lark more blithe, no flow'r more gay;
And like the bird that haunts the thorn,
Su merrily sung the live-long day.
“ If that my beauty is but small,
Among court ladies all despised;
Why didst thou rend it from that hall,
Where, scornful Earl, it well was priz'di
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