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Contagion. Belgium, thy cultur'd fields were far too near
The awful crater of the burning mount;

Whence some hot, noisome vapours would appear

To have infected thee. Can we account

By other means, for actions which amount

To something much akin t' intoxication?

Now, that's what oft-too often-proves the fount

Of greatest mischief, to or man or nation.

Pray take a nap, and then your sober station.


Did we but know when we were well off.

What wouldst thou have ?-'twere really hard to tell,

Amidst thy various bickerings-since repented.

Before proceeding to hard knocks, pell-mell,

It had been wiser to have represented

Your hardships to a king, who's not demented;
And would have met you more than half the way
To heal', or wound, or wrong, had you but hinted.

1 I find the following just remarks on the Belgians and the King of

It is an ugly thing a bloody fray,

I'd rather see thy Park in holiday!


You claim, and roughly question, as is said,
Some moneys levied by the parent state;
Forgetting that the arms, as well as head,

For common weal, must aid at common rate.
"Tis further rumour'd, that you loathe and hate
The Dutch, and would reject the combination;

And why? because they neither pray nor prate As

you do. What a cause for separation !

"Divide would you be conquer'd," that's quotation.

Pretty reasons for a quarrel.

the Netherlands, in a work lately published at Brussels, entitled, "Les Destinées futures de l'Europe," Pages 219, 220. "Ces memes Belges aujourdhui (1828) a l'abri d'une constitution liberale, et sous le gouvernement d'un Roi qui joint la garantie de ses vertus personnelles à la protection des lois, cherissent cette meme royauté, qui leur portait ombrage, qui les met en possession d'une liberté, dont ils n'avaient jamais joui sous des formes plus republicaines, et dont ils n'avaient eu que le vain simulacre."



One flock.

It is not by the form, but by the zeal,

With which our prayers are breath'd, that we're made good.
A Saviour came with mercy-came to heal

All those who felt, believ'd, and understood.
Righteous himself, it was the righteous mood,
And not the mode, which the Redeemer sought,
Who wanted but one flock-one brotherhood!
How many fatal fights have there been fought
About a truth, which was so plainly taught !

Shake hands.


Come, come, sweet Brussels, trust to good Mynheer,

Shake hands, and you'll yet prove a prosperous race 1;
Disputes persisted in, cause many a tear-

Eat his cheese-his wife shall wear your


1 Up to this period (February 1831), though there is no longer any hope of a re-union between Holland and Belgium, it is not yet determined who shall wear the crown of the last mentioned country, the King of France having, with a consideration for the peace of Europe, creditable alike to his heart and head, declined that high honour for his son.

Mayhap it may not be here out of place,

To tell you what our Bulls said on th' occasion
Of an old well contested doughty case,

Which puzzled long the great men of the nation—
I mean the Catholic Emancipation.



By the Powers! we've at length got a great liberator,

And soon shall arise from confusion and shame.


Let us hope that he'll prove a humane Moderator,
And bind us to Erin in fortune and fame.


Och! has he not, John, with his mighty protection, Procur'd us such rights as we ne'er had before? There's Lary, the Papist, has gain'd his election, And Terence O'Reilly's return'd for Glenroar.


That's all as it ought to be, Pat, 'twas a boon,


Nay, a justice, we ow'd to the fair Sister Isle; Decreed by that Monarch, whose goodness 1 will soon Be rewarded with every true Irishman's smile. Now, Brothers (through ties far more sacred than ever) May I pray thee, beware of a misjudging School, Who, blind to the welfare of kingdoms, would sever An empire in twain, by their reckless misrule; Who have not, alas! e'en the foresight to know That happiness reigns not till discord doth cease;

That constant contention turns friend into foe,

That fighting's not freedom, Dis-Union not peace!"


Land of the Swiss, where freedom sits enthron'd

On the proud summit of the Alpine range;

Her port elate, her palace richly zon'd

With what nor art nor time can ever change!-
Eternal snows!
Were she e'er call'd to venge

1 Written before the death of our late beloved Monarch.

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