MONTHLY REVIEW OF LITERATURE. 479 



sFightest claim to the character of poetry. The sooner the author and the 

 Muses bid each other good morning the better for the former. He says he is 

 an oil painter ; we advise him, by all means, to stick to his colours, and let 

 " poetry," as he calls his nonsense, alone. We give the last of his " poems " 

 as a fair specimen of the whole. It is called " Fortune's Favourite, or the 

 Weaver Boy :" — 



There was a gay young weaver boy 



Who work'd for pence per day. 

 He did not like the shuttle toy. 



So from it ran away. 

 He steer'd his course to Oxford town. 



And, being a tidy lad. 

 They into college took the clown 



To see what brains he had. 



Some babes are born in Fortune's lap. 



And so become her care : 

 He beat the boys at school right slap, 



And gain'd all prizes there ; 

 And, now become a gentleman. 



To his own town he went, 

 And Fortune, faithful to her son. 



Sent him to Parliament. 



The eyes which blest a lady fair 



On him now look'd so bright. 

 And in those eyes shone virtues clear, 



As love in stars of night : 

 In wedded splendour they were seen. 



And soon they did possess 

 The little lights to bless the scene. 



As moons the planets bless. 



In parliament, now shining bright. 



He rose to high renown ; 

 The King now dubbed h'm for a knight. 



Who lately was a clown 

 Prime minister he next became : 



No greater titles are. 

 Huzza ! for the young weaver's fame — 



Dame Fortune's son and heir. 



One more specimen we give, written in a different style, and then leave 

 the author and his book alone in their glory. It is very appropriately headed 

 "Johnny Raw :" — 



A COUNTRY wake saw Johnny Raw, 



Johnny Raw, 



Johnny Raw. 

 He simply smil'd at all he saw, 



Johnny Raw, 



Johnny Raw. 

 This sheep the dashing Serjeant saw. 

 He on his shoulder laid his paw. 

 With barley juice he filled his craw, 



Johnny Raw, 



Johnny Raw. 

 Oh I the simple Johnny Raw. 



