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THE LION'S HEAD.

We are happy to learn from L. that he has " descended from his poetic flights into another walk;" perhaps he has a prose essay on foot for our next Number.

To" a Lover of Music " (from Exeter), we have to express our thanks for his communication. He will, no doubt, understand our motives for declining to interfere in a matter, which involves local preferences and jealousies-altogether out of our jurisdiction.

We have seen worse verses than L.'s, but we have better, which, we hope, will excuse our refusal.

G. R.'s diction would inflate a balloon. He should remember that "a power of fine worde" is not "poetic power."

T. says, that his tale is out of his own head: is he a tadpole?

Of a certain correspondent, we may say, as of certain books, that we should be glad to see more than the Title Pages.

Ignotus is referred to our pages for the most satisfactory answer we can give him.

As B. says he has the "Cacoethes Rhymendi, and loves the luxury of feeling that attends it," Lion's Head would not willingly scratch him again, though many cases which have come under his paws have been successfully treated. But B. conjures us to tell him, "whether he may ever hope to produce any thing he need not blush at?"-No, never; if he continues to write such poetry as he now submits to our perusal. To be serious, let our correspondent take a hint from Dr. Watts:

How doth the little busy b
Improve each shining hour.

Lion's Head has tried its tooth upon the translation from Horace, sent "for early mastication," but the morsel is too tough.

We thank "A Constant Reader," for his translation of "The Opening of the obscure Poem of Lycophron."-In his anxiety to "render it as literally as possible," he has still retained too much of the obscurity.

The friend who has sent us a brace of Sonnets, one of them written in a copy of Thomson's Seasons, must excuse us, if we do not put either under

our own cover.

"De mortuis nil nisi bonum:"-but bonum is not the Latin for Studens's lines on Chatterton.

Sam Sparkle's Anacreontic (from-Queen-street, Cheapside-hush!) is too far gone:-the conduits in Cheap do not run wine now-a-days. The Muse is often agreeable in her cups, but when she stammers in her grammar, and stumbles in her metaphors-it is high time she should be seen home. Sam's Muse has not a foot to stand upon. Can he send us something soberer, or was his Muse born with a claret-mark?

"Lines to a Friend," on her departure to Antigua, show more sympathy than poetry. Some of them are almost long enough for log-lines.

We are sorry that we cannot oblige Caleb, nor Cælebs.

We cannot sufficiently express our gratitude to Common Sense, jun. of Leeds, for the patience and skill with which he has attempted to couch the Eyes of Lion's Head. Will Common Sense, jun. frankly tell us, (in a frank if he pleases,) what we are to think of the following ballad ?—

Jom Hood

Alternate

stanzas by

Jibon it, Krysilike

FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN.

AN OLD BALLAD.

Young Ben he was a nice young man,
A carpenter by trade;

And he fell in love with Sally Brown,
That was a lady's maid.

But as they fetched a walk one day,
They met a press-gang crew;
And Sally she did faint away,
Whilst Ben he was brought to.

The Boatswain swore with wicked words, Enough to shock a saint,

That though she did seem in a fit, 'Twas nothing but a feint.

Come, girl, said he, hold up your head,
He'll be as good as me;

For when your swain is in our boat,
A boatswain he will be.

So when they'd made their game of her,

And taken off her elf,

She roused and found she only was
A coming to herself.

And is he gone, and is he gone?
She cried, and wept outright:
Then I will to the water side,
And see him out of sight.

A waterman came up to her,
Now, young woman, said he,
If you weep on so, you will make
Eye-water in the sea.

Alas! they've taken my beau, Ben,
To sail with old Benbow;
And her woe began to run afresh,
As if she had said gee woe!

Says he, they've only taken him
To the Tender ship you see;
The Tender, cried poor Sally Brown,
What a hard-ship that must be!

O! would I were a mermaid now,
For then I'd follow him;
But, Oh! I'm not a fish-woman,
And so I cannot swim.

Alas! I was not born beneath
"The virgin and the scales,"
So I must curse my cruel stars,
And walk about in Wales.

Now Ben had sail'd to many a place
That's underneath the world;
But in two years the ship came home,
And all the sails were furl'd.

But when he call'd on Sally Brown,
To see how she went on,
He found she'd got another Ben,
Whose Christian name was John.

O Sally Brown, O Sally Brown,
How could you serve me so,
I've met with many a breeze before,
But never such a blow!

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