Star.
London, England, 1811-08-05 00:00:00

No butter, no fresh eggs, no mutton chops,

No crisp-brown toast, such as spruce waiter pop,
In London coffee-house, heneath your beard,
When thrice the well-pull'd hungry bell is heard.
Not even a cup or saucer deck the board,

But from the Havre-aack's foul motley hoard .
A vessel's dragg'd, ten thousand debts to pay,
Doom'd to ten thousand uses, night and day.
Then dinner—oh! ye Gads, who deign to stoop
To mortals :turns, contemplate our soup !
See the hot smoaking bullock's thin lean flanks,
Portiun'd in morsels thro' the famish'd ranks,
fee In camp-kettles all we have to dire,
Yielding soup meagre that would frighten swine.

Such the two sorry meals—but two, alas !
And these scarce e'en enliven'd by a glass.
'Twere Impious to insult the Cod of Vines,
Profane his sacred juice, his rosy wines,
By calling Wine, the rank, sour, scanty stuff
Which special favour gives, nor gives enough.
Can such repasts be meant to feed and drench
Great Britain's Heroes sent to fight the French
Better at home, in some dark cellar vile,
Mend shoes as cooler than starve here in style.
Or muffins cry, or occupation smelt, .
Ply in St. Giles's for a pound a week!
Ye fat rich citizens of London town,
Who roll in coaches and who sleep in down,
Vp-rais'd by trade, who wallow In your wealth,
And snug o'er claret drink "The Army's Health,"
Turn here your eyes, and ghra a pitying stare,
Behold how Britain's lean lank warriors fare ;
Think not of hall-room strut, or lounging gait
In public walks, our military bait
To catch your daughters, oft Tel Thomson' prize,
Our gold and scarlet sparklins like tAeir eyes.

But see the crimson coat seam'd e'er with stitches,
The torn, degenerate, regimental breeches,
See how pale, thin, and worn, the once brisk sash Is,
See the last relics of these spatterdashes,
The ei-levant gay cults, how &heed grown—
All glare, all brilliancy, all splendour gone !
Hail sweet Recruiting Service, pleasing toil;
Ball-room campaigns, tea parties, cards, dice, Hoyle.
Ye days, when d.:ngl.ng was my only duty,
Envied by Cits, cress'd by every Beauty ;
Envied by-Cite, who trembled at each glance
Shot at their daughters going town the dance.
soh! how tormenting Mem'ry sad reviews
This happy hours, when in silk hose, Clio shoes,
And sprightly scarlet, mach the Tailor's pride,
I loured and liatter'd at the fair one: side !
Away, cured busy Fancy, leave this vision ;
Increase not Misery by keen derision—
Away, quick, hasten frunt these dreary walls
Attend soft Heroes to their plays and balls.
i'leasures fled hence—wide now the gut: between us,
Stern ,`,gars Las routed Bacchus and sweet Venus !

I can so mo:e—the lamp's last fading ray
Reminds me of Parade 'ere break of day,
Where shie'ring I must strut, tho' bleak the morning,
Rous'd by the hateful Drummer's early warning.
Come then my beat-cloak, let me wrap thee round,
And snore In concert, stretch'd upon the ground!
'Midst all these snorers gruatiug in their nooks,
Oh, may I dream of frying-pans, and cooks,
Puts, spits, and larders; and, when Viands pall
Guzzle with Aldermen of fam'd Guildhall !
And baste the day when I on Albion's chore,
May stuff and cram till I can cram no more.
Haste the blest might when deep shall sink this frame
In gelds of feathers, not in fields of Fame! T. P.M.
Partugal, April, llt I

A few days since two men who had bees washing
sheep at piston of Dunsyre, went into the water to
wash themselves, after their work was over, and were
both drowned•
•