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For the Private Theatre or the Drawing-room.
Air- Not“ Pull away, pull away, pull away, my hearties!”—Dibdin.

Oh! this is the house for effects and for scenes,-
What is Drury, Ducrow's, Covent Garden, the Queen's ?
Success at the one or the other will pause,
But in this house the manager constantly draws.-

Then let the Muse be at her

Home, in this theatre;
Gain here, and glory, go snacks in applause.
The crowds that come here, made of Beauty and Ninny,
Take-each takes a seat in the stall for a guinea ;
Our great managerial actor then bows,
And, oh! with what pleasure he views the front rows !

Then let, &c.
At the Opera they boast of the band and the chori,
Of Lindley,-of Balfe,-Dragonetti, and Mori;
But here finished art, perfect touch, take their station,
For who beats our hero in instrumentation ?

Then let, &c.
There's Richard the Third is a favourite part,
And he mouths it, like some of our players, by heart ;
But remember that Gloster, when first he drew breath,
Was shaped like a screw—with a full set of teeth.

Then let, &c.

may, effectively fall to his lot,
For where's such an artist for “ Out, damned spot !"
And we see, where those old annotators were blind,-
For the issue of Duncan, why he filed his mind.

Then let, &c.
He does not play Lear (Forrest does—so does Booth),
For he thinks the “How sharper !" is wrong on the tooth!
His company's good, else why full stall and bench?
But, though he likes Power, he won't hear of Wrench !

Then let, &c.
Through pieces—light farce-Fame our favourite then next tracks,-
Single acts, single scenes, pungent touches, smart extracts !
With Colman's Review, too, he's coupled by some,
For he, like John Lump, gets a “guinea, by Gum!"

Then let, &c.
Then, with riches at will, oh ! how liberal the lord
Of this mansion is found at the banquet and board !
Still, though wealth comes from east and from west, north and south,
Yet some will say he lives but from mere hand to mouth!

Then let, &c.
But cautious he should be,-though bright be the day,–
For he knows, best of any, the works of decay;
And he ne'er should forget, in this splendid—this top age,
That when he won't draw, he inclines then to stoppage.

Then let, &c.
But long may he flourish-long, long here preside,
To give “ harmless pleasure" to thousands beside!
Age is baffled by him,-we're still rich,—let it fret!
Oh! if hundreds are lost, we can have a new set !

Then let, &c.



DRY-ROT. “That which is most elaborate in nature is that which soonest runs to decay."

FARADAY. The Muses, to their infinite disgrace as useful members of society, have for centuries been devoting their time to the sun, the moon, the stars, flowers, lips, hair, love,“ kisses, tears, and smiles ;" in short, to objects of mere enjoyment and beauty ; greatly to the delight, it must be confessed, of the young and the romantic, but tending to no wise and useful purpose, and contributing to no profitable end. The long luxurious indolence of these nine inestimable young ladies for so many, many years, does appear to us to cast no slight shade upon their characters; and Parnassus itself does not “ hold its own" as a place of any considerable repute, when the habits of its female frequenters are taken into account. It is, indeed, high time that the Muses should get into places of all work,—that they should earn their bread through habits of honest industry and integrity, and not be idling about the rose-trees, and wasting their powers on a sigh, an eyebrow, or a trumpery star. The time for useful exertion is come; and the days of dalliance, dreaming, and ethereal delight are passing away. Flora gives way to Cocker, and Apollo is whipped off the top of his own Grecian mount by the schoolmaster abroad. If the Muses do not now patronise statistical reports, poor-law estimates, and fat-cattle meetings, they will as surely “sink in their repute,” ay, as surely as the name of their firm is “ Clio, Tighe, Thalia, Hemans, Euterpe, Landon, Polyhymnia, Jenkinson, and Co.” Imagination is all very well in its way; but does it know how “ things are in the City ? Is it in the direction-it certainly ought to be-of the Great Northern Railway, or the Public Safety British Patent Axletree Conveyance Company? Can imagination“ set a leg or an arm ?” if not, why imagination may imagine itself carrying out its own shutters in these enlightened times, and shutting up its own shop at mid-day.

We are happy to see, and to be able to say, that the Muses, like the ladies in “ the Invincibles,” are marching with the times. They are setting imagination to work on various well-sounding schemes for public companies and joint-stockeries. Apollo is preparing a prospectus for a New British Co-operative Joint Stock Music Society, into which, of course, nothing foreign will be allowed to creep, unless it is altered and dressed anew, and “ wears a livery like its fellows.” Melpomene is to take the Queen's Theatre for a serious bazaar, and Thalia is to turn Astley's into an agreeable chapel for the Jumpers. Urania goes to the Astronomical Society as housekeeper, and Terpsichore is to be the lessee of the dancing-rooms in Brewer-street, Golden

square, for gymnastic purposes. Indeed, there will not be an idle body in the lovely firm; and, in future, it is more than probable that vessels will be propelled by means of airy verse, and balloons inflated by fancy, or elevated and guided by the application of high-flown figures. There is no knowing or foretelling to what extent of usefulness poetry may be carried !

It has fallen to our lot to be able to record one of the scientific turns which poetry has taken. The Muses having of late years observed that the palm-tree, the laurel, and all their sacred trees, had, like the trees in all gardens open to the public, suffered much from ill-usage, - premature symptoms of dry-rot having presented themselves,-the Nine were all at sixes and sevens about the matter, until they were recommended by a humane neighbour (as one of Morrison's pill victims says in a grateful advertisement) to "try Kyan.” “Try Kyan!" exclaimed Calliope.“ What, in the name of music, can Kyan be?" On turning to the columns of the Morning Chronicle, however, Erato (who could read) discovered the advertisement explanatory of the great patent antidote to dry-rot in timber ; and a deputation of three of the daughters of Mnemosyne waited on Messrs. Faraday, Pine, Kyan, Memel, Mills, Oakley, Terry, and Woodison, gentlemen interested in the progress of this invaluable discovery,--and finally at the office in Lime-street-square the Muses bargained for a steeping of their undying, dying, decaying timber in the wondrous tank at Red Lion wharf, Poplar. The process, notwithstanding the mischief done to the wood by the poets of this scratching age, was most triumphantly successful; all symptoms of decay, except where certain initials were carved, at once disappeared, and the immortal plants began to put on all their original brightness !" Apollo gave an awful shriek of delight as he saw the wanton cuttings and witherings disappear, and the grand leaves of beauty starting into life afresh, at the inspiring touch of the immortal Kyan. The Muses, with a few select friends, dined together afterwards, at the Macclesfield Arms in the New-road, and a song upon Kyan's patent was impromptued on the occasion, and was very favourably received, when the mortal waiters were out of the room. We are enabled to lay a copy of it before our readers; and we are sure they will, with us, receive with pleasure this proof of the interest which the Muses are taking in matters of science and useful art. It is reported that the Nine are about to become members of the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge.

Air-" Well, well, now—no more ;-sure you ’ve told me before."

Love in a Villuge.
Have you heard,--have you heard, -
Anti-dry-rot's the word ?

Wood will never wear out, thanks to Kyan, to Kyan!

He dips in a tank,

Any rafter or plank,
And makes it immortal as Dian, as Dian!

If you steep but a thread,

It will hang by the head,
For ever, the largest old lion, old lion ;

Or will cord up the trunk

Of an elephant drunk ;-
If you doubt it, -yourself go and try 'un, and try 'un.

In the days that are gone,

As to timber and stone,
Decay was by no means a shy ’un, a shy 'un.

He bolted our floors,

And our vessels by scores,
And the thirsty old rot was a dry ’un, a dry 'un !

Oak crumbled beneath

The dry blast of its breath,
As soon as it e'er came a-nigh ’un, a-nigh 'un;
But gone

is the day
Of that glutton Decay,
Since he can't eat his timber with Kyan, with Kyan!

Say-now-what shall we steep

In the tank? just to keep.-
Shakspeare sniffed our great secret, the sly ’un, the sly 'un!

Hamlet, Macbeth, and Lear,

Have been Kyan'd, my dear,
By Nature's immortal Paul Pry ’un, Paul Pry ’un.

Shall the plays of the day

Take a plunge from decay? (There is no need for Tell, or for Ion, for Ion ;)

I fear he could not

Soak away the dry-rot
From some things:-But all rests on Kyan, on Kyan.

Put the lid on the tank,

Not a crack for a plank,-
While I point out one thing, as I fly on, I fly on,

Which really must not

Have a dip 'gainst dry-rot,
Stuff with cotton the ears of my Kyan, my Kyan.

In a whisper I' speak,

(But 'twill rain for a week, – Or as long as St. Swithin will cry on, will cry on,-)

The moment I make

Your conviction awake That Vauxhall wants no plunge 'gainst the dry ’un, the dry ’un.

Do not dip many books

In our anti-rot nooks;
Keep out novels, and all Sense cries Fie on! cries Fie on!

Though, since Wood turns sublime

In its strife against time,
Most heads that we know, will try Kyan, try Kyan.

Only think what great good

"Twould do Aldermen Wood,
(Elected for life) if they'd try 'un, they'd try 'un ;-

Every word that I say

Is as true as the day,
And each hint you may safely rely on, rely on!

Then, hurrah! come uncork !

This dry-rot is dry work;
Bring the bottle,—that one I've my eye on, my eye on;

My spirit I'd steep

In its rich anti-deep,
And linger for morn, like Orion, Orion !

'Gad the secret is out,

We've talk'd so much about;
My dog's on the scent,-oh! then hie on, then hie on!

Tis the bottle, I feel,

Makes immortal mere deal,
And wine's the solution of Kyan, of Kyan!



. When single-speech Hamilton made in the Irish Commons that one memorable hit, and persevered ever after in obdurate taciturnity, folks began very justly to suspect that all was not right; in fact, that the solitary egg on which he thus sat, plumed in all the glory of incubation, had been laid by another. The Rev. Mr. Wolfe is supposed to be the author of a single poem, unparalleled in the English language for all the qualities of a true lyric, breathing the purest spirit of the antique, and setting criticism completely at defiance. I say supposed, for the gentleman himself never claimed its authorship during his short and unobtrusive lifetime. He who could write the “ Funeral of Sir John Moore," must have eclipsed all the lyric poets of this latter age by the fervour and brilliancy of his powers. Do the other writings of Mr. Wolfe bear any trace of inspiration ? None.

I fear we must look elsewhere for the origin of those beautiful lines; and I think I can put the public on the right scent. In 1749, Colonel de Beaumanoir, a native of Britanny, having raised a regiment in his own neighbourhood, went out with it to India, in that unfortunate expedition commanded by Lally-Tolendal, the failure of which eventually lost to the French their possessions in Hindostan. The colonel was killed in defending, against the forces of Coote, PONDICHERRY, the last stronghold of the French in that hemisphere.

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