In Pity, give Three Cheers!

A
PARODY
ON THE
Beggar's Petition.

The following Stanzas were picked up yesterday-week on the shore near Cowes. The lines that are left out were illegible, apparently from the Manuscript, which was torn, having been used in keeping a pair of refractory whiskers in good order.

PITY the sorrows of a poor old man,
Whose gilded yacht has borne him to your
shore:

Let not his wife chastise him with her fan;
Oh! give three cheers, if you can give no more,

These well-made clothes my wish to please bespeak,

These curling locks disguise my lengthen'd
years,

And the bluff whiskers on each ample cheek,
Might strike an Indian warrior with fears.

The house which once I fondly thought my own—
Scene of my triumphs—now has ceas'd to
shine;

For Justice there shall fix her golden throne,
And truth, and law, and liberty, combine.

Hard is the fate of the infirm and weak!
Here, as I crav'd them to disgrace my wife,

They said another bride I must not seek,
And saucy Denman bade me mend my life.

Had fate reduc'd me, I should not repine;
My friends have brought me to the state you
see,

And your condition will be soon like mine—
They'll bring you, too, to want and misery.

A huge Green Bag delighted they display,—
Gay as a lark I view'd the valued prize;

But, oh, its treasures melt in dirt away
Beneath the flash of Brougham's inquiring eyes.

My sprightly Canning, soother of my cares,
Keen as a Rat the coming storm to see,

Departed, when I tamper'd with the pray'rs,
And left the Bag to Gifford and to me.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
Whose gilded yacht has borne him to your
shore:

Let not his wife chastise him with her fan ;

Oh! give three cheers, if you can give no more.

SONG,
ADAPTED TO MOORE'S MELODY.

Tune—« The harp that once, in Tara's halls. »

THERE's triumph in a nation's voice,
'Tis glory's trump of fame ;

Echo proclaims Britannia's choice,
Hark! millions hail thy name.

There's magic in thine azure eye,
Affection in thy mien ;

The manly heart regards the sigh
Of widow'd wife and Queen.

Oh! warmly thrills the patriot soul,
As where the Prophet trod,
When Heaven's own flame, above control,
Illum'd the bush of God.

Such hope the wand'ring Brunswick found,
Such guide her heart and hand ;

She came!—with loyal love she's crown'd
In this her promis'd land.

Printed and published by J. Fairburn, 110, Minories.—Price One Penny.