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LITTLE PERU, OR THE WICKLOW GOLD-MINE.

My sweet native land, the first place of my birth there, Good luck to you dear if the story be true, In your bowels I'm told on the face of the earth there, Lies Mexico's wealth, a snug little Peru; Back to Ireland I'll trot and fall digging for riches, These two eyes no longer shall pewter behold, For a pair I'll get measur'd of ready-made breeches, And copper both pockets with pure virgin gold.

Come then brother Pats and pack up your odd matters, Leave nothing behind you but what you can take, 'Tis your turn to laugh at John Bull's rags and tatters, No longer at Pat can he fun and game make. No more with sweet butter-milk whitewash your bodies, No more with potatoes your full stomachs cram, As Plutus, not Patrick, old Ireland's rich God is, Drink champaign and venison, with rasberry jam.

You chairmen from Ireland, big blackguards call'd ponies, Case you up and down, fan away tabbies in chairs, You'll soon be all jontlemen and macaronies, If your prize in Peru only comes up in shares. I think I now see you all swell, strut, and swagger, With big lumps of nature's coin'd gold in your hand, When by whiskey tight-laced up St. James's you stagger, Bid tabbies go carry themselves and be d?d.

And you flashy captains who oft go recruiting, 'Mongst England's brisk widows, fond daughters and wives, Leave war for a peace, and don't be after shooting Of Frenchmen, to frighten them out of their lives. What's honour and glory to flush ready rhino, Without which no captain can keep up the ball, Quick march to Peru, the sweet spot you and I know, Fill your bellies with full pay and half-pay and all.

Oh! you my Bath Bobadils hunting for acres, And shaking your elbows, cry seven's the main, For the bodies of belles you're the live undertakers, But you take them, it's true, for no prospect of gain. It's not for a gold-mine you Bobadils marry, 'Tis all for pure love, beauty, temper, and grace! 'Tis for kindness and tenderness said Captain Larry, Who kill'd his last wife by too tight an embrace.

Ye limbs of the law living on little pittances, Fertile in quibbles, tho' barren in fees, Yet pregnant with bother 'bout Irish remittances, Which you mighty well know never cross the salt seas; Leave the law's crooked path for the straight path of pleasure, The road to Peru is the turnpike to wealth; And when you walk thro' it pursuing your treasure, Pay as you come back, when your purse is in health.

And you L?M?M like penny-post walking, All up and down London to bother the stones, In a pair of jack boots there no longer be stalking, But to Ireland convey yourself, body, and bones. As an absentee go and dwell on your estate then, "Lay the root to the axe" of your tenants distress, A slice of Peru for old Pompey the great then, Will make him look bigger sure never the less.

And you father O'Burke, first of Irish defenders, Of war and corruption, of tyrants and slaves, Protector of kings, not of humbug pretenders, So you pray for their lives, and keep digging their graves. As their old priest and sexton you've got a snug pension, The gift of our king, wealthy, worthy, and wise; 'Twas to make you see clearer, ah! lucky invention, He threw the gold dust of Peru in your eyes.

Jew Aaron of old, in the absence of Moses, Set up a gold calf, a strange fancy I think; When Moses came back, they pull'd each others noses, Burnt the gold calf, and mixt it with water to drink. To be sure for pure gold with some silver alloy now, I shan't be of worship and gratitude full; But I make a calf when you know my dear joy now, For half the expence I can make a nate bull.

While planning prosperity for brother paddies dear, I took up the news, called the National Star; I read it aloud, and was mightily vex'd to hear Peru had been seiz'd for the king, not the war. So said I to myself, talking to a bye-stander, I hate all damn'd wars and their consequent ills; But Peru for the king, sedition and slander, 'Tis to pay future ministers' blunders and bills.

THE BLUE VEIN, A TRUE WELCH STORY.

Ye fun-loving fellows for comical tales, Match this if you can, truly current in Wales; The bible so old, and the testament new, Have none more authentic, more faithful, or true. Four frisky maidens, young, handsome, and plump, Who cou'd each crack a flea on their bubbies or rump, Took it into their heads, just to bother the tail Of Ned Natty, a groom, so they jalap'd his ale.

Now Ned on red herrings that ev'ning did sup, So he drank ev'ry drop of the gripe-giving cup, Soon his guts 'gan to grumble, and shortly Ned found His bowels give way, and his body unbound: The buckskin's gay leather, by gallows confin'd, Could not be cut down 'till indecently lin'd, This made Neddy's P?o, accustom'd to sprout, Shrink into his belly, and turn up his snout.

The time this damn'd jalap in Ned's belly lurk'd, No post-horse like Neddy was ever so work'd, Three nights and three days he lay squirting in bed, And neither could hold up his tail nor his head: The storm, at length, ceasing, purg'd Ned 'gan to think On some revenge sweet for this damnable stink, "For I'm damn'd," exclaim'd Ned, "if these bitches shan't find "That I'm cabbag'd before, tho' I'm loosen'd behind."

'Twas early one morn, exercising his steed, Ned saw an old gipsey hag crossing the mead, Straight he hail'd her, and said, "Woman, where do you hie?" She replied, "to tell fortunes of females hard by": Now these females Ned found were his jalapping friends, So he thought it the season to make them amends, Then he brib'd for the cant, and the gipsey's old cloaths; Thus equipp'd, said Ned, trick for trick, damn me, here goes.

First Molly, the cook-maid, he took by the hand, From her greasy palm, told her what fortune had plann'd, She was soon to be married, each year have a brat, "Indeed," cried the cooky, "how can you tell that?" "I'll tell you the number," said Ned, "let me see The blue vein that's low plac'd 'twixt the navel and knee," When she pull'd up her cloaths, Ned exclaim'd, "I declare Your blue vein I can't see, 'tis so cover'd with hair."

Next dairy-maid Dolly, of letchery full, Swore she was then breeding, for she'd had the bull; To the gipsey, said Doll, "can you, old woman, tell Whether bull or cow calf make my belly so swell?" When he view'd her blue vein, he said, "Doll, by my troth, You must find out two fathers, for you will have both," For the squire and the curate, when heated with ale, Doll Dairy had milk'd in her amorous pail.

Now Kitty, the house-maid, so frisky and fair, Who smelt none the sweeter for carrotty hair, Presenting her palm to the gipsey so shrewd, Was candidly told that her nature was lewd: While feeling the vein near her gold-girted nick, Kate play'd the old gipsey a slippery trick, So Kate, that had ne'er been consider'd a whore, Was told she'd miscarried the morning before.

Then came Peggy the prude, who no bawdy could bear, Yet wou'd tickle the lap-dog while combing his hair; "Is the butler, my sweetheart," said Peggy, "sincere, "And shall we be married, pray, gipsey, this year?" Quoth the gipsey, "you'll have him for better or worse, "But you'll find that his corkscrew is not worth a curse; "So when you are wed, 'twill be o'er the town talk'd, "There goes Peggy, a bottle, most damnably cork'd."

Now Ned, thus reveng'd, bid the maidens good day, But, curious, they ask'd him a moment to stay, For said Molly, the cook-maid, "we all long to see "If you've a blue vein 'twixt the navel and knee:" Ned pull'd up his cloaths, Sir, when to their surprise, They beheld his blue vein of a wonderful size, The sight Kate the carrotty couldn't withstand, She grasp'd the blue vein 'till it burst in her hand.

So alarm'd, the prude Peggy fell into strong fits, Frighten'd cook and Doll dairy went out of their wits; Then carrotty Kitty to gipsey Ned spoke, "We'll each give a guinea to stifle the joke:" But Ned swore that no money should silence his tongue, That the tale should be told in a mirth-moving song; "As a caution," cry'd Ned, "to all Abigails frail, "That there's more fun in f?g than jalapping ale."

The story like wildfire o'er Cambria was spread, From the borders of Chester, to fam'd Holyhead, In a vein of good humour, the vein that is blue, Will long be remember'd by me and by you: Then fill a bright bumper to honour this vein, A bumper of pleasure to badger all pain; So hear us, celestials, gay mortals below! Drink c--t, the blue vein, wherein floods of joy flow.

COUNTRY LIFE.

WITH ADDITIONAL STANZAS BY MR. HEWERDINE, MARKED BY INVERTED COMMAS.

Captain Morris's song is here inserted, for the sake of the answer that follows.

In LONDON I never know what to be at-- Enraptur'd with this, and transported with that; I'm wild with the sweets of variety's plan-- And life seems a blessing too happy for man!

But the COUNTRY sets all matters right-- So calm and composing from morning to night: Oh, it settles the stomach, when nothing is seen But an ass on a common--a goose on a green!

In LONDON how easy we visit and meet!-- Gay pleasure's the theme, and sweet smiles are our treat; Our mornings a round of good humour delight-- And we rattle in comfort and pleasure all night!

In the COUNTRY how pleasant our visits to make, Thro' ten miles of mud, for formality's sake; With the coachman in drink, and the moon in a fog, And no thought in our head--but a ditch or a bog!

In the COUNTRY you're nail'd like a pale in your park, To some stick of a neighbour cramm'd into the ark; Or, if you are sick, or in fits tumble down, You reach death, ere the doctor can reach you from town.

I've heard that how love in a cottage is sweet, When two hearts in one link of soft sympathy meet:-- I know nothing of that; for, alas, I'm a swain Who requires more links to MY chain!

Your jays and your magpies may chatter on trees, And whisper soft nonsense in groves if they please: But a house is much more to my mind than a tree; And, for groves--oh, a fine grove of chimneys for me!

"But, for singing and piping, your time to engage, "You've cock and hen bullfinches coop'd in a cage; "And what music in nature can make you so feel, "As a pig in a gate stuck, or knife-grinder's wheel!

As town-bitten bards, bred in fashion and noise, The country decry, and its health yielding joys; Let us fairly examine the preference due To the smoak-smother'd town, o'er the villa's clear view.

At ev'ry town tavern you turn in to dine, Tho' your dinner's half cold, smoaking hot is your wine; Then how pleasant and wholesome while picking your bone, The mix'd odour of other folks food and your own.

Then noisy and drunk, scarcely feeling their legs, Bucks sup at the M?, on hash'd duck, oysters, eggs, Eggs pregnant with chick, oysters sp--d up before, The duck dainty fed in the streets common sewer.

Yet, how charming Vauxhall in a cold rainy night, To hear dull-hacknied ditties to music so trite; You've a thin slice of ham, town-made wine thick and flat: View a tinman's cascade, and a fidler's cock'd hat!

See Ranelagh! folly and fashion's resort, And vapid masqued balls, where Intrigue holds her court; There girls are "loose fishes," pull'd up in their turns; There wives are harpoon'd, and dull husbands get horns.

In a vortex of dust, thro' the sun's scorching ray, A rotten-row ride on a Sunday how gay; Thro' a long lane of lacqueys you meet your hard fate, Screw'd in and screw'd out of a damn'd narrow gate.

In London, while day-light, not long are you clean; At night you're bug bitten, scarce fit to be seen; Thus amusement and exercise fall in your way, For you're scratching all night, and you're scrubbing all day.

In the streets oft you meet a queer stick of a fellow, Who pokes in your eye his sharp-pointed umbrella; But the measure of danger is scarcely half full, When a flow'r-pot dropt down, breaks itself and your scull.

If in London the doctors should shorten life's date, To lie long in the grave's, not the dead bodies fate; For surgeon, clerk, sexton, and coachman conspire, To mangle the corpse, and the bones join with wire.

In the country we're healthy, all vigour and spunk, No doctor we want, but to make him dead drunk; Nor yet patent-coffins; for, once in the ground, Our bodies are snug, till the trumpet's last sound.

A famous gambling-house so called in the vicinity of S. James's.

ADDITIONAL STANZAS.

At the play among loungers and doxies you're cramm'd, To hear wretched stuff that has just not been damn'd; Take cold with your back 'gainst an open door box, Get a crick in the neck, and a c? full of p--x!

Sublime your sensations, arise, when you hear The codless Italian, with pipe shrill and clear; But we in the country, whom cocknies call clods, All glory in raising our pipes with our--c?ds.

At night, half seas over, returning from club, You run foul of a nightman, and his nose-gay tub; And a jordan perhaps, on your noddle may split, So before you get home, you're bepiss'd or be-s--t!

In the country to see us would do your hearts good, Such pieces we push at, of pure flesh and blood; Take a flyer in town, 'tis a hot butter'd bun, And you're certain to pay thro' your nose for the fun.

At the playhouse or opera when you approach, How sweet to be stuck in a stinking hack-coach; And when you alight, still your patience to try, A strange hand's in your pocket, a link's in your eye.

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