To be sold by Auction, J.M. Auctioneer, a large and choice Collection of Materials for Sleeping,--consisting of a Quantity of old News; erroneous and clumsy Statements of recent events; heavy Critiques on Theatrical Performers and Plays _not_ performed; flat Pieces of uninteresting Biography; drowsy original Letters; dull Extracts from a northern _Caput Mortuum_ of Insipidity; a Number of Puns, Jests, and old Anecdotes, warranted free from Attic Salt, chigramatic Point, or any other Ingredient capable of rousing Attention or exciting Risibility; also, a Quantity of pure Tyne Mercury, which possesses the peculiar Property of never rising in the Barometer of public Estimation, higher than the Point Ennui.--The Sale to begin every Monday Evening at Eight o’Clock, and continue till all be sold. I’m resolv’d--may I hope you’ll approve of the measure?-- A short course of Lectures to give, when I’ve leisure; In order to perfect these Orators’ graces, Who cry Dying Speeches and Lists of the Races: But, hark! ding dong, the Prompter’s Bell goes, I’m electrified by the sound; Mr Lindoe,[13] your summons I haste to obey, Yet Gratitude bids me one moment delay-- Just to thank my kind Patrons all round. [13] The then Prompter at the Theatre. OXYGEN GAS. _By JOHN SHIELD, of Newcastle, and sung at the Newcastle Theatre Royal_. On Rhenish, Medeira, Port, Claret, and Sherry, Your fulsome eulogiums, bon-vivants, pray spare; ’Tis granted, when sad, wine can render us merry, And lighten our bosoms of sorrow and care; But what vintage can fire us, Enrapture, inspire us, As Oxygen? what so delicious to quaff? It is so animating, And so titillating, E’en grey-beards turn frisky, dance, caper, and laugh, For what can so fire us, &c. O wond’rous indeed is this bev’rage ethereal! The mortal who quaffs it, altho’ a mere clod, Is straightway transformed to a being ærial, And moves on earth’s surface in fancy a God. In a bumper is given A foretaste of Heaven, All earthly vexation straight cease to annoy, Whilst laughing and crying, And efforts at flying, Bespeak the soul tost in a tempest of joy. For what can so fire us, &c. Haste, haste to partake on’t, ye men of grave faces, Ye Quakers, and Methodist parsons likewise; What tho’ ye seem lost to the flexible graces, And dormant the risible faculty lies; One quaff of the vapour Will cause you to caper, And swiftly relax your stiff solemniz’d jaws; You’ll acknowledge the change too, As pleasing as strange too, And make the air ring with loud ha! ha! ha! ha’s! For what can so fire us, &c.