New Hampshire Statesman

"But now they rise again.
With twenty mortal murders on their crowns."

There is one species of fashionable murder, (start not man of honor, I don't mean duelling.) of which the law takes no cognizance, namely, the altering, mangling and parodying of poetry, which is so unfortunate as to be popular. In these laudable attempts to improve, not only words, but ideas, are "forced into the service, which could obtain their writ of habeas corpus from any court in christendom." But this is fashionable, therefore must be right. pro tempore. Among the recent victims is a song by Moore, upon which another parody is offered, which is presumed to be the very worst of the kind, ever written.

Air,—"I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curl'd."

I knew by the pole that's so gracefully crown'd
Beyond the old church that a tavern was near,
And I said, if there's black-strap on earth to be found,
A man who has credit might hope for it here.

It was noon, and the geese rove quietly round
Among the rank wormwood, in quest of the grass;
I listened, and there was silence profound,
Save the sound of a toddy-stick tapping the glass.

And here, in this snug little house, I exclaim'd,
With a landlord who loved to see us "get high,"
And bottles well fill'd with liquor that's fam'd,
How drunk could I get, and how calm could I lie.

By the side of yon toper, whose red nose dips
In the foam of his brandy, how sweet to recline,
And to know, as I gaz'd on his carbuncled lips
That they never wore equalled by any but mine.

JEREMY.