English

IN THE ODDITIES .

Of the ancients is't speaking my soul you'd be after,
That they never got how come you so?
Would you sariously make the good folks die with laughter?
To be sure their dogs tricks we don't know.

Wid your smalliliow nonsense, and all your queer bodderns,
Since whisky's a liquor divine,
To be sure the old ancients, as well as the moderns,
Did not love a fly sup of good wine.

My muse so sweet,
A song complete,
Bid echo sound symphonious;
And trill away
A melting lay
Which rival may
The kissing Bonefonius;

My passion's hot
As pepper-pot,
Or brandy mix'd with ginger!
The ardent fire
Of my desire,
Should I come nigh her
I really think would singe her!

My little love!
My duck! my dove!
Yield! yield to my caresses!
O let me glue
My lips to you
Till black and blue,
With rapture's sweet excesses!

Edgar Allan Poe
Was passionately fond of roe.
He always liked to chew some
When writing anything gruesome.

EPISTLE EXCUSATORY,

ADDRESSED TO JOSEPH DENNIE, ESQ. EDITOR OF THE PORT FOLIO, AS
AN APOLOGY FOR NOT MORE FREQUENTLY WRITING FOR HIS
POETICAL DEPARTMENT.


Since Simon's muse no longer chatters
Of politicks and other matters,
The anxious publick wish to know
Whether the bard, to shades below,
Has hied with jacobin commission
To raise a mob, in fields Elysian,
Or gone to organize a club
Of demos, under Beelzebub.

IN THE ODDITIES .

Resplendent gleam'd the ample moon,
Reflected on the glitt'ring lee,
The bell proclaim'd night's awful noon,
And scarce a ripple shook the sea,
When thus, for sailors, nature's care,
What education has denied,
Are of strong sense, a bounteous share,

IN THE ODDITIES .

Abergavney is fine, Aberistwith also,
And the lasses it is fine when to market they go;
The birds and the pretty finches sing fine in the grove,
But the finest bird of all is that little rogue luff.

Luff me I pray you now, luff me as your life,
And Taffy and Griddy shall soon be man and wife.

II.

The mountains are high, and the fallies are low,
And from Radnor to Glamorgan's a long fay to co;

Peter the Hermit
Neglected to apply for a permit
When raising his mixed brigade
For the First Crusade.

Let fortune triumph now, and Io sing,
Sith I must fall beneath this load of care;
Let her, what most I prize of eu'rie thing,
Now wicked trophees in her temple reare.
Shee, who high palmie empires doth not spare,
And tramples in the dust the prowdest king,
Let her vaunt how my blisse shee did impaire,
To what low ebbe shee now my flow doth bring;
Let her count how, a new Ixion, mee
Shee in her wheele did turne, how high nor low
I neuer stood, but more to tortur'd bee:
Weepe, soule, weepe, plaintfull soule, thy sorrowes know,

Ye who build the Churches of the Lord!
See that ye make the western porches low:
Let no one enter who disdains to bow.
High Truths profanely gazed at, unadored,
Will be abused at first, at last abhorred;
And many a learned, many a lofty brow
Hath rested, pillowed on a humbler vow
Than critic ken can notice or record.
O stainless peace of blest Humility!
Of all who fain would enter, few, alas!
Catch the true meaning of that kind, sad eye;
While thou, God's portress, stationed by His door,

The great Emperor Otto
Could not decide upon a motto.
His mind wavered between
L'État C'est Moi and Ich Dien .