possession of Captain Medwin. A very limited number printed at Charles Clarke's private press, Great Totham, Essex, 1845.

This consists of twenty stanzas relating to the early history of Ireland, is coarse in its language, and of no general interest,

The Royal Progress, a Canto, with notes written on the occasion of his Majesty's visit to Ireland, August, 1821, London, 1821.

Dedicated to Lord Byron, and written in imitation of his ottava rima metre in Don Juan. p.p. 95.

Printed by R.

Don Juan, Canto the third, London. Greenlaw, Holborn, 1821. p.p. 103. (An imitation.) An Apology for Don Juan, by John W. Thomas, London, Partridge and Oakey, 1850.

New Don Juan, and the Last Canto of the Original 'Don Juan.' From the papers of the Contessa Guiccioli. 12mo. pp. 61, 1876.

The Vampire. This publication was at one time ascribed to Byron, but a letter of his exists, denying this. It is dated April 27, 1819, from Venice. This Letter is not to be found in Moore's Collection of Byron's Letters, its discovery having been first announced in the Academy, April 23, 1881.

"I am not the author, and never heard of the work in question until now. In a more recent paper I perceive a formal annunciation of 'The Vampire,' with the addition of an account of my residence in the Island of Mitylene,' an island which I have occasionally sailed by in the course of travelling some years ago through the Levant-and where I should have no objection to reside-but where I have never yet resided. Neither of these performances are mine, and I presume that it is neither unjust nor ungracious to request that you will favour me by contradicting the advertisement to which I allude. If the book is clever it would be hard to deprive the real writer-whoever he may be of his honours; and if stupid-I desire the responsibility of nobody's dulness but my own. The imputation is of no great importance, and as long as it was confined to surmises and reports I should have received it as I have received many others-in silence. But the formality of a public advertisement of a book I never wrote-and a residence where I never resided is a little too much, particularly as I have no notion of the contents of one, nor the incidents of the other. I have, besides, a personal dislike to 'Vampires,' and the little acquaintance I have with them would by no means induce me to divulge their secrets."

Brum: A Parody. By old Sarbot. A small pamphlet of 29 pages, 'without author's or publisher's name, date, or place, but evidently printed in Birmingham, and dealing with persons and incidents connected with that town.

Ossian's Address to the Sun. Lines supposed to have been written by Byron on a leaf of the second volume of Macpherson's Ossian.' These volumes are preserved in the library at Harvard University, The MS. notes and the 'Address' are now known to be forgeries.

The Vampyre. Letters, spurious. By Dr. Polidori, Sherwood, Neely and Jones, 1819.

H.

The Suppressed Letters of Lord Byron.
Schultess-Young.

Collected by
R. Bentley, 1869. Publication

suspended.

A Spiritual Interview with Lord Byron: his Lordship's Opinion about his New Monument. 12mo. pp. 18. 1875. Strange Visitors, a series of original papers, embracing philosophy, religion, poetry, art, fiction, satire. humor, etc., by the spirits of Thackeray, Bronte, Byron, Browning and others now dwelling in the spirit-world, dictated through a Clairvoyant state, Boston, 1884.

This curious volume contains :-By W. M, Thackeray, His Post-Mortem Experience; by Lord Byron, To His Accusers; by Edgar A. Poe, The Lost Soul; and by Charlotte Bronte, Agnes Reef, a tale.

DON JUAN UNREAD (1819.)

By Dr. W. Maginn, Trin. Coll., Dublin. OF Corinth Castle we have read,

Th' amazing scene unravell'd;
Had swallowed Lara and the Giaour.
And with Childe Harold travell'd.
And so we followed Cloven-foot,
And faithfully as any,

Until he cried, "Come, turn aside
"And read of Don Giovanni,

"Let Whiggish folk, frae Holland House,
Who have been lying, prating,
Read Don Giovanni, 'tis their own,
A child of their creating.

On jests profane they love to feed,
And there they are-and many,
But we, who link not with the crew,
Regard not Don Giovanni.

There's Goodwin's daughter, Shelley's wife
A'writing fearful stories;

There's Hazlitt, who with Hunt and Keats,
Brays forth in Cockney chorus.
There's pleasant Thomas Moore, a lad
Who sings of Rose and Fanny;
Why throw away, their wits so gay
To take up Don Giovanni.

"What's Juan but a shameless tale
That bursts all rules asunder?
There are a thousand such elsewhere
As worthy of your wonder-
Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn
His lordship looked not canny;
And took a pinch of snuff, to think
I flouted Don Giovanni!

"O, rich," said I, "are Juan's rhymes,"
And warm the verse is flowing
Fair crops of blasphemy it bears,
But we will leave them growing.
In Pindar's strain, in prose of Paine,
And many another Zany

As gross we read, so where's the need
To wade through Don Giovanni?
Let Colburns' town-bred cattle snuff
The sweets of Lady Morgan ;
Let Maturin to amorous themes
Attune his barrel organ.

We will not read them, will not hear
The Parson or the granny,
And, I dare say, as bad as they,
Or worse, is Don Giovanni.

"Be Juan, then, unseen, unknown;
It must, or we shall rue it.
We may have virtue of our own,
Ah! why should we undo it?
The treasured faith of days long past
We still would prize o'er any,
And grieve to hear the ribald jeer

Of scamps like Don Giovanni.

"When Whigs with freezing rule shall come And piety seems folly,

When Cam and Isis, curbed by Brougham,
Shall wander melancholy;

When Cobbet, Wooler, Watson, Hunt,
And all the swinish many,

Shall rough shod ride o'er Church and State,
Then hey! for Don Giovanni.

'Tis the first rose of summer that opes to my view, With its bright crimson bosom all bathed in the dew; It bows to its green leaves, with pride from its throne, 'Tis the queen of the valley, and reigneth alone.

O! why, lovely stranger, thus early in bloom?
Art thou here to assure us that summer is come?
The primrose and harebell appear with the spring,
Bnt tidings of summer the young roses bring.

Thou fair gift of nature, I welcome the boon;
Was't the lark of the morning that 'woke thee so soon?
Yet I weep, thou sweet flow'ret; for soon from the sky
The lark shall repose, where thy leaves withered lie.

O! if beauty could save thee, thou ne'er would'st decay,
But, alas! soon thou'lt perish and wither away;
And thy kindred may blossom, and blossom as fair,
Yet I'll mourn, lonely rose-bud, when thou art not there.

ROBERT GILFILLAN. 1831.

EPSOM RACES.

'Tis the last man in London
Left lounging alone,
All his bottle companions
To Epsom are gone :
No friend of the Regent
Or Bond do I see,
To kill on this pavement
His cursed ennui.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine in this street,
Since Verey has jellies,
We'll stroll in and eat.

Thus at Epsom they're crowded,
In London we're cramm'd,
And whilst we are jellied,
They're probably jamm'd

The National Omnibus, May 27, 1831.

THE OLD MAID.

I'M the last Rose of summer,

And wither alone;

All my lovely companions
Are wedded and gone.
No soul of my kindred,
No maiden is nigh,

To reflect back my wrinkles,
And heave sigh for sigh.

Yet peaceful I rest me
Upon my lone bed,
No tyrant molests me,

I mourn no Babe dead.
Thus cheerful I scatter
Regrets to the air,
And rejoice in my freedom
From discord and care.

Alone must I perish,
Alone I decay :

No daughter to cherish,
No son for a stay.

I sink to the slumber,

Of Death's calm repose,

Till the Bridegroom, rejoicing,

Shall claim his last Rose,

From The Maids', Wives', and Widows' Penny Magazine, December 29, 1832.

THE LAST SUMMER BONNET.

'Tis the last summer bonnet, The worse for the wear;

The feathers upon it

Are dimm'd by sea air :

Gay places it went to,
But lingers at last,
A faded momento

Of sunny days past.

The prejudice still is
For poets to moan,
When roses and lillies
Are going and gone:
But fashion her sonnet
Would rather compose
On summer's last bonnet,
Than summer's last rose !

Though dreary November
Has darken'd the sky,
You still must remember
That day in July,
When, after much roaming,

To Carson's we went

For something becoming

To take into Kent.

You, long undecided

What bonnet to choose,

At length chose, as I did,

The sweetest of blues;

Yours now serves to show, dear,

How fairest things fade ;

And I long ago, dear,

Gave mine to my maid.

THOMAS

Oh! pause for a minute,
Ere yours is resign'd:
Philosophy in it

A moral may find:

To past scenes I'm hurried,-
That relic revives

The beaux that we worried
Half out of their lives.

'Twas worn at all places
Of public resort :
At Hogsnorton races,

So famous for sport;
That day, when the Captain
Would after us jog,

And thought us entrapt in
His basket of prog!

He gave me a sandwich,
And not being check'd
He offered a hand-which
I chose to reject !

And then you were teased with
The gentleman's heart,

Because you seemed pleased with

His gooseberry tart!

'Twas worn at the ladies
Toxopholite fête.

(That sharpshooting trade is
A thing that I hate ;
Their market they mar, who
Attempt, for a prize,
To shoot with an arrow
Instead of their eyes.)

And don't that excursion
By water forget;
Sure summer diversion
Was never so wet !
To sit there and shiver

And hear the wind blow,
The rain and the river,
Above, and below!

But hang the last bonnet
What is it to us,

That we should muse on it,
And moralize thus?
A truce to reflecting :
To Carson's we'll go,
Intent on selecting

A winter chapeau.

Then let Betty take it,
For Betty likes blue;
And Betty can make it

Look better than new: In taste Betty's fellow Was never yet seen; She'll line it with yellow, And trim it with green! HAYNES

Magazine, 1833.

BAYLY, in The New Monthly

'TIS THE LAST BIT OF CANDLE.

'Tis the last bit of candle,
With flickering light,
All its pound of companions,
Have finished their night;

While here we sit toping,
And waking the sun,
To shine on the revel,

As merely begun.
Thou sink'st in the socket,
The grease of thy wick,

Is failing and failing,

As smiles of the sick;
The lips most bewitching,
The eyes most divine,
Are scarcely less fleeting,
In ceasing to shine.

O, My last bit of candle,

Thou'lt not be alone,

Go stink in the grease pot,

Thy brethren are gone :

Though moon ne'er should light us,
Though gone be thy spark,
We can all find our glasses,

And mouths in the dark.

From Wisehearts Merry Songster. Dublin.

THE LAST LAMP OF GRAFTON'S ALLEY-CORK.

THE last lamp of the Alley,

Is burning alone!

All its brilliant companions
Are shiver'd and gone.

No lamp of her kindred,

No burner is nigh

To rival her glimmer,

Or light to supply.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,

To vanish in smoke;

As the bright ones are shatter'd
Thou, too, shalt be broke.
Thus kindly I scatter

Thy globe o'er the street

Where the watch in his rambles
Thy fragments shall meet.
Then home will I stagger
As well as I may,

By the light of my nose sure
I'll find out the way.

When thy blaze is extinguished,

Thy brilliancy gone,

Oh! my beak shall illumine

The Alley alone.

And gently I'll scatter
The ashes you shed,

As your soul joins its mates in
A cloud overhead.

A pleasure is fleeting,
It blooms to decay

From the weed's glowing circle,
The ash drops away.

A last whiff is taken,

The butt-end is thrown,
And with empty cigar-case
I sit all alone.

THE STRAW HAT OF SUMMER,
'TIS the straw hat of summer
All tattered and torn;
All the brim has departed,
Its crown is well worn.
But no hat is there like it
So dear to my heart;

It has kept off the sunshine
In meadow and mart.

There it hangs o'er the window;
Its glory is shorn,
For my foolish affection
Don't laugh me to scorn;
It is grimy and greasy,
And ragged 'tis true,
But its value in mem❜ry

Is more than when new.
Though a horse would not eat it
In such a sad state,

It is worthy of meeting

A far better fate.

It is hardly sufficient
To kindle a fire

But I'll make of its fragments
A funeral pyre.

Oh! companion of summer,
Go with thee my joy,

Thou hast served me with ardour
That knew no alloy.

So then peace to thy ashes
Thy loss grieves me sore,

I shed o'er thee tear drops
Of friendship of yore.

WILLIAM MAGINN.

THE LAST CIGAR.

'Tis a last choice Havana
I hold here alone;

All its fragrant companions
In perfume have flown,

No more of its kindred

To gladden the eye,

So my empty cigar-case

I close with a sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,

To pine; but the stem

I'll bite off and light thee

To waft thee to them.

THE LAST OF THE FANCY.

A Lament for the Anticipated Extinction of the Prize Ring.

'Tis the last of the Fancy,

Left pining alone,

All his "nobby" companions

Are mizzled and gone!

No "pal" of his kindred

No bruiser is nigh,

To exchange broken noses

Or give a black eye!

"I'll not leave thee, thou game one,

To pine in the ring;

Since the strong ones have mizzled, Go-do the same thing.

Thus, kindly I gather

The ropes from the ground, Where thy pals of the Fancy

Have fought the last round!'

The Art none will follow
When prizes decay,
And from patrons and backers
The "tin" drops away;
When all, e'en a novice,

To mill with have flown,
Ah! who, then, would flourish
His "mauleys " alone?

Judy, July 10, 1867.

I'll not keep thee, thou lone one,
Here moping with me,
With thy friends in the gin-shop
Go tizzy, and spree ;
So down on the counter
That sixpence I vacks,
And has 'stead of him, Sir,
Four glasses of max !

But they vont give no credit,
So I has no more,

I'll go and pick pockets
By Drury-Lane door;
About the Theaturs

There's lots to be had
And ven I gets flush, vy
I'll guzzle like mad.

AN OXFORD PARODY. ON SMOKING

AN AUTUMN SESSION.
'Tis the last of the members
Left spouting alone;
Half the Whigs and the Tories
Are grouse shooting gone.
Not the creatures of Althorp,-
No hireling is nigh

To defend all his blunders
And give lie for lie.

Will they force you, ye lone ones,

To sit till Septem

Ber? No; others are sporting,

Go sport ye with them.
Then fain would I scatter.

This ghost of a house,

Where their mates of St. Stephen's

Are bagging the grouse,

So soon may you rise when

Debates do decay,

And from all the divisions

Each side keeps away.

For when Whigs are all vanished,
And Tories are flown,
Oh, who would attend at
The Bleak house alone.

Figaro in London, August 17, 1833.