334 
Stephensiana,—No. 11. 
SELF-DENIAL. 
The old Duke of Cumberland was 
wounded by a ball, at the battle of 
Dettengen, in the calf of his leg, but 
perceiving that a Frenchman of the 
name of Guiardan, had.no one to assist 
him, he turned round, and said 44 begin 
by dressing this French officer’s leg, 
he is more hurt than I am, and I shall 
have help enough. 
MR. COBBETT. 
When his Majesty visited Cuffnell’s, 
in 1S04, he said the moment he entered 
the house, 44 where is my friend Cob- 
bett’s paper ?” Mr. C. at that time 
wrote in the ministerial interest. 
The PRETENDER. 
Prince Charles Edward, the son of 
the Chevalier de St. Geoige, was fated 
like his ancestors to experience a va¬ 
riety of fortunes. His grandfather, 
James II. had been dethroned, or in 
gentler language was forced 44 to abdi¬ 
cate,” for his attachment to tyranny 
and the catholic religion. His great 
grandfather, Charles I. was condemned 
to the block by his own subjects. His 
great grandmother was put to death 
by Elizabeth. His father was condemn¬ 
ed to experience an ignominious exile, 
and this last scion of so many kings of 
England, escaped decapitation by an 
effort almost miraculous. After con¬ 
tending with the appearance of success 
for the crown of England, he was 
seized as a common prisoner in France, 
and transported to Italy, where he 
shortened his days by intoxication. 
The old WHIG POET to his old BUFF 
WAISTCOAT. By CAPT. MORRIS. 
Farewell, thou poor rag of the muse ! 
In the bag of the cloathsman go he : 
A sixpence thou'lt fetch from the Jews, 
Which the hard hearted Christians deny. 
Twenty years in adversity’s spite, 
I bore thee most proudly along : 
Stood jovially bu ff to the fight, 
And won the world’s ear with my song. 
But, prosperity’s humbled thy case : 
Thy friends in full banquet I see, 
And the door kindly shut in my face, 
Thou’st become a foots garment to me ! 
Poor rag ! thou art welcome no more, 
The days of thy service are past, 
Thy toils and thy glories are o’er, 
And thou and thy master are cast. 
But though thou’rt forgot and betrayed, 
’Twill ne’er be forgotten by me, 
How my old lungs within thee have play’d, 
And, my spirits have swelled thee with 
glee. 
Perhaps they could swell thee no more, 
For Time’s icy hand’s on my head 3 
My spirits are weary and sore, 
And the impulse of Friendship is dead. 
[Nov. 1, 
Then adieu ! tho’ I cannot but fret 
That my constancy with thee must part, 
For thou hast not a hole in thee yet, 
Though through thee they have wounded 
my heart. 
I change thee for sable, more sage, 
To mourn the hard lot I abide 3 
And mark upon gratitude's page, 
A blot that hath buried my pride. 
Ah ! who would believe in these lands 
From the IVhigs I should suffer a wrong? 
Had they seen how with hearts and with 
hands 
They followed in frenzy my song. 
Who’d have thought, though so eager their 
claws, 
They’d condemn me thus hardly to 
plead ? 
Through my prime, I have toiled for your 
cause 
And you’ve left me, when aged, in need. 
Could ye not midst the favours of fate, 
Drop a mite where all own it is due ? 
Could ye not from the feast of the state 
Throw a crumb to a servant so true ? 
In your scramble I stirred not ajot, 
Too proud for rapacity’s strife 3 
And sure that all hearts would allot 
A scrap to the claims of my life. 
But go, faded rag, and while gone 
Pll turn thy hard fate to my ease 5 
For the hand of kind heaven hath sheAvn 
. All crosses have colours that please. 
Thus a bliss from thy shame I receive, 
Though my body’s met treatment so foul, 
I can suffer, forget, and forgive, 
And get comfort, more worth for my soul. 
And when seen on the rag-seller’s rope, 
They who know thee’ll say ready euongh, 
(< There service hangs jilted by hope, 
“ This once was poor M~rr -s’s buff.” 
If they let them give Virtue her name 
And yield an example to teach, 
Poor rag, thou hast served in thy shame 
Better ends than thy honours could 
'reach. 
But though the soul gain by the loss, 
The stomach and pocket still say, 
“ Pray what shall we do in this cross ?” 
I answer, “ he poor and be gay.” 
Let the muse gather mirth from her wrong, 
Smooth her wing in adversity's shower ; 
To new ears and new hearts tune her song. 
And still look for a sun-shining hour ! 
While I, a disbanded old W’hig, 
Put up my discharge with a smile ; 
Face about—prime and load—take a swig’, 
And march off—to the opposite file. 
TILLOTSON. 
Archbishop Tillotson left nothing to 
his family but the copy of his posmu- 
inous sermons, which was afterwards 
sold for 2,500 guineas. King William 
granted Dr. Tillotson’s widow a pen¬ 
sion of 6001. per annum, and forgave 
the first fruits. 
BURKE 
