2. Wherein it is But ye remorseless rhymesters, spare the King! earnestly requested of the poets of Dublin, not to slay the King after the fashion of Ankerstroem or Ravillac. Have some compassion on your own liege Lord!' Were he to death by Dublin poets bored. And the newspapers have their pens prepared. Let none attempt to greet the King, save such great bards as I. A WELCOME TO HIS MAJESTY KING GEORGE THE FOURTH, ON HIS ARRIVAL IN IRELAND, 1. MDCCCXXI. MY DEAR SIR,—As I lifted up my voice, and wept over the great nationail calamity which overspread my native land last year, (I need not say the death of Sir Daniel,) I think it right to rejoice now in the general joy of Ireland at the arrival of the King. I choose the same metre as that which I used in the Luctus, it being, as Beattie well observes of the Spenserian stanza, equally adapted to the grave and the gay. Of course, as before, I recommend it to be sung by my old friend Terry Magrath. The Director at the corner will be saying every where that it was he who wrote this song, or at least that he connived at it, but don't believe him, it being all excogitated by My dear sir, CORK INSTITUTION, Aug. 1, 1821. Your's till death us do part, R. D. R. A WELCOME TO HIS MAJESTY. [Tune-Groves of Blarney.] Synoptical Analysis for the Benefit of Young Persons studying this Song. Stanza I. Welcome in general; in the following verses the specific excellencies of Ireland are stated. Stanza II. 1. National meat and drink and valour. Stanza III. 2. National riot in a superior stlye. Stanza IV. 3. National music. Stanza V. 4. National oratory. Stanza VI. 5. National gallantry. Stanzas VII. and VIH. National uproariousness. All these offered for the diversion of the King. YOU'RE Welcome over, my royal rover, You'll never spy land, like this our island, Our hills and mountains, our streams and fountains, Our towns and cities all so bright, Our salt-sea harbours, our grass-green arbours, Our greasy larders will glad your sight. 2. 'Tis here you'll eat, too, the gay potato, And you'll get frisky upon our whisky, Which, were you dumb, would make you sing; And you'll see dashers, and tearing slashers, 3. Just say the word, and you'll see a riot Such recreation to you could show, 4. And as for music, 'tis you'll be suited Then there's our speaking, and bright speech-making, Which, when you hear, 'twill make you jump; When in its glory it comes before you, "Twould melt the heart of a cabbage stump. 'Tis so met'phoric, and paregoric, As fine as Doric or Attic Greek, "Twould make Mark Tully look very dully, Without a word left in his cheek. 8. God bless your heart, Sir, 'tis you will start, Sir, To hail their Sovereign will turn out. Shout to the winds, God Save the King! These effusions of Hibernian joy may induce some of our readers to inquire how it has happened that we have given them no account of the grand dinner at which, with our contributors, we celebrated the great event of the 19th of July. The fact is, that we had prepared a very full account of it, but, as the devil in the chest had no selecting power over the papers, he only stumbled on the two following songs. EXCELLENT NEW SONG, Composed by JAMES SCOTT, Esq. M. D. and Sung by him, with great THERE are flowers in every window, and garlands round each door, From the cottage, to the castle, in unison all sing,— The man on this auspicious day one moment that would linger Long brooded o'er this nation the thunder-cloud of war, Though blindness fell upon the aged father of his realm, Well may the dealers in wine and spirits say, For thousands on thousands drain their bumpers, as they sing, The nobles of the land to the Monarch all have gone, Oh, when I look around me, it makes my bosom swell, EXTEMPORE EFFUSION, Sung with great Effect by MORGAN ODOHERTY, Esq. on the Evening of 19th July. My landlady enter'd my parlour, and said,— "Bless my stars, gallant Captain, not yet to your bed? Then creep to your hammock, Oh go, my love, go! Derry down, &c. "Do look at your watch, sir, 'tis in your small pocket, Jenny pull'd off my boots, and I turn'd into bed, Derry down, &c. Methought that to London, with sword at my side, Our Monarch, the King, he was placed on the throne, Derry down, &c. First Liverpool moved at his Sovereign's command; Then Wellington, hero of heroes, stepp'd forth; Then brave Graham of Lynedoch, the cock of the north; For Anglesea's leg likewise knelt at the throne. Derry down, &c. But the King look'd around him, as fain to survey, Oh noble the sight was, and noble should be Derry down, &c. Like old Agamemnon resplendent came forth, "Oh, Sire! though your will were as hard to attain, "From the Land's End to far Johnny Groat's, if a man "We have Morris, the potent physician of Wales, "We have sage Kempferhausen, the grave and serene; Derry down, &c. "We have also James Hogg, the great shepherd Chaldean, As sweetly who sings as Anacreon the Teian; We have Delta, whose verses as smooth are as silk; "We have Dr Pendragon, the D. D. from York, "We have Seward of Christchurch, with cap and with gown, A prizeman, a wrangler, and clerk of renown; And Buller of Brazen-nose, potent to seek A blinker for fools, from the mines of the Greek. Derry down, &c. "Nicol Jarvie from Glasgow, the last, and the best "We have Ciecro Dowden, who sports by the hour, Methought that the King look'd around him, and smiled; But the best came the last, for with duke and with lord, |