THE MUSIC HALL.

Old bards have sung how they could boast Of places that's renown'd, For bloody battles won and lost, And royal monarchs crown'd; But all those deeds this place exceeds— They in the shade must fall, Some have declar'd, if but compar'd To our fam'd Music Hall. Here zealots join in warm debate, And for their rites contend— Here Lark-wing spouts on church and state, His popery to defend; With bigot zeal, his country's weal He vows to have at heart— Yet 'tis well known, throughout the town, He plays a knavish part. Now, from Hibernia's fertile shore The thund'ring champion comes, His country's wrongs for to deplore, With trumpets, fife, and drums; He tells them, too, he is most true, Their firm, unshaken friend, While life Shall last, he will stand fast, And all their rights defend. Then champions of another grade— I mean, of fistic lore— Deaf Burke, the bouncing gasconade, Struts o'er the spacious floor, Who, with great art, performs his part, In teaching self-defence; Yet plain I saw, he meant to draw Fools' shillings, pounds, and pence. Next comes a man of fangles new— Of worlds, and moons, and stars— Who said, Sir Isaac never knew The Ple-i-ades from Mars The folks throng'd round from all the town, And some pronounc'd him clever, Yet, I've been told, both young and old Return'd as wise as ever. Apollo, too, his court here keeps, With sirens in his train— Each trembling note of music sweeps Transport through every vein: When Orpheus play'd within the shade, He made the woods resound; The list'ning beasts forsook the mead, And stood, like statues, round. A graver scene my muse has caught, Where sages, in a row— Men, by the Holy Spirit taught The gospel truths t' avow— Those who have trod, to serve their God, The shores of foreign land, At his command, now boldly stand T' implore a helping hand. And not unfrequent, as we stray This wond'rous place to see, We find it fill'd with ladies gay, To take a cup of tea; And many a gent, who is content With such domestic fare, Has often sat, in social chat, And join'd in many a prayer. Of many more there is one class, Which merits some attention— Not Bacchanalians, alas! For such I would not mention— But men of brains, the smell of grains Would strike with detestation, Who'd keep us dry, and thus decry All liquors in the nation. Nay, come what will of good or ill, Just only make a trial— If you the owner's pockets fill, You'll meet with no denial; And men, I hear, from far and near, Have given attestation, So strong a place they cannot trace In any other nation.