Now let us sing long live the King, And Gilpin, long live he; And when he next doth ride abroad, May I be there to see! W. COWPER. ―――― MRS. GILPIN RIDING TO EDMONTON. Then Mrs. Gilpin sweetly said Unto her children three, “I’ll clamber o’er this style so high And you climb after me.” But having climbed unto the top, She could no further go, But sate, to every passer by A spectacle of woe, Who said, “Your spouse and you this day Both show your horsemanship, And if you stay till he comes back, Your horse will need no whip.” The above verses in the handwriting of Cowper were found among Mrs. Unwin’s papers, with a drawing, supposed to be by Romney, of Mrs. Gilpin sitting on the top of a gate. The idea seems to be that Mrs. Gilpin having tired waiting for her husband, wandered into the fields, and in an attempt to get over one of those awkward styles for which Enfield was then famous, got upon the top, but could not get down again. The drawing is very ludicrous. _From Hone’s Table Book_, Vol. II., pp. 79-80. ―――― THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF MOORE’S LIFE OF BYRON. _Shewing how the Poet burnt the original, and afterwards published the copy._ Lord Byron was a nobleman, Of wonderful renown, A splendid poet eke was he, Of famous London Town. Lord Byron said to Tommy Moore, Tho’ living I have been At Newstead, ten long years, yet I No happiness have seen. To-morrow I shall sail for Greece And you may then repair To London (or to Jericho, [Aside] for what I care.) I’ll leave my life unto your child, Whenever I may die; And mind John Murray pays him well For my Biography. Tom Moore replied, I do admire Of Poet-kind but one―― And you are he, my dearest Lord, Therefore, it shall be done. I really am not worth a damn, As all the world doth know, But if Lord Byron says I am, Why, then, it must be so. Quoth young Childe Harold that’s well said, But for, that I’m a man! Be sure you do not murder me As you did Sheridan. Tom Little shook him by the hand, O’erjoyed was he to find, That when he went, he meant to leave His manuscript behind. The morning came――the Poet went, And when his life was o’er, The tale of all his wicked loves Was left with Tommy Moore. So, on his table it was laid, And he turned o’er the leaves; Two precious volumes all agog, And thick as any thieves. Smack went the pen into the ink, Was never Tom so glad? His chin did chuckle up and down, As if his jaws were mad. From _The National Omnibus_. April 1, 1831.