(Weeps.)

Heavens, how it blazed!—I'd ask no livelier fire, (With animation) To roast a Papist by, my gracious Sire!— But ah! the Evidence—(weeps again) I mourned to see— Cast as it burned, a deadly light on thee: And Tales and Hints their random sparkles flung, And hissed and crackled, like an old maid's tongue; While Post and Courier, faithful to their fame, Made up in stink for what they lackt in flame. When, lo, ye Gods! the fire ascending brisker, Now singes one now lights the other whisker. Ah! where was then the Sylphid that unfurls Her fairy standard in defence of curls? Throne, Whiskers, Wig soon vanisht into smoke, The watchman cried "Past One," and—I awoke.

Here his Lordship weeps more profusely than ever, and the Regents (who has been very much agitated during the recital of the Dream) by a movement as characteristic as that of Charles XII. when he was shot, claps his hands to his whiskers to feel if all be really safe. A Privy Council is held— all the Servants, etc. are examined, and it appears that a Tailor, who had come to measure the Regent for a Dress (which takes three whole pages of the best superfine clinquant in describing) was the only person who had been in the Bourbon Chamber during the day. It is, accordingly, determined to seize the Tailor, and the Council breaks up with a unanimous resolution to be vigorous.

The commencement of the Second Act turns chiefly upon the Trial and Imprisonment of two Brothers[4]—but as this forms the under plot of the Drama, I shall content myself with extracting from it the following speech, which is addressed to the two Brothers, as they "exeunt severally" to Prison:—

Go to your prisons—tho' the air of Spring No mountain coolness to your cheeks shall bring; Tho' Summer flowers shall pass unseen away, And all your portion of the glorious day May be some solitary beam that falls At morn or eve upon your dreary walls— Some beam that enters, trembling as if awed, To tell how gay the young world laughs abroad! Yet go—for thoughts as blessed as the air Of Spring or Summer flowers await you there; Thoughts such as He who feasts his courtly crew In rich conservatories never knew; Pure self-esteem—the smiles that light within— The Zeal, whose circling charities begin With the few loved-ones Heaven has placed it near, And spread till all Mankind are in its sphere; The Pride that suffers without vaunt or plea. And the fresh Spirit that can warble free Thro' prison-bars its hymn to Liberty!

The Scene next changes to a Tailor's Workshop, and a fancifully-arranged group of these Artists is discovered upon the Shop-board—Their task evidently of a royal nature, from the profusion of gold-lace, frogs, etc., that lie about—They all rise and come forward, while one of them sings the following Stanzas to the tune of "Derry Down."

My brave brother Tailors, come, straighten your knees, For a moment, like gentlemen, stand up at ease, While I sing of our Prince (and a fig for his railers), The Shop-board's delight! the Maecenas of Tailors! Derry down, down, down derry down.

Some monarchs take roundabout ways into note, While His short cut to fame is—the cut of his coat; Philip's Son thought the World was too small for his Soul, But our Regent's finds room in a laced button-hole. Derry down, etc.

Look thro' all Europe's Kings—those, at least, who go loose— Not a King of them all's such a friend to the Goose. So, God keep him increasing in size and renown, Still the fattest and best fitted Prince about town! Derry down, etc.

During the "Derry down" of this last verse, a messenger from the Secretary of State's Office rushes on, and the singer (who, luckily for the effect of the scene, is the very Tailor suspected of the mysterious fragments) is interrupted in the midst of his laudatory exertions and hurried away, to the no small surprise and consternation of his comrades. The Plot now hastens rapidly in its development—the management of the Tailor's examination is highly skilful, and the alarm which he is made to betray is natural without being ludicrous. The explanation too which he finally gives is not more simple than satisfactory. It appears that the said fragments formed part of a self-exculpatory note, which he had intended to send to Colonel M'Mahon upon subjects purely professional, and the corresponding bits (which still lie luckily in his pocket) being produced and skilfully laid beside the others, the following billet-doux is the satisfactory result of their juxtaposition,

Honored Colonel—my Wife, who's the Queen of all slatterns, Neglected to put up the Book of new Patterns. She sent the wrong Measures too—shamefully wrong— They're the same used for poor Mr. Lambert, when young; But, bless you! they wouldn't go half round the Regent— So, hope you'll excuse yours till death, most obedient.

This fully explains the whole mystery—the Regent resumes his wonted smiles, and the Drama terminates as usual to the satisfaction of all parties.

[1] There was, in like manner, a mysterious Book, in the 16th Century, which employed all the anxious curiosity of the Learned of that time. Every one spoke of it; many wrote against it; though it does not appear that anybody had ever seen it; and Grotius is of opinion that no such Book ever existed. It was entitled, "Liber de tribus impostoribus." (See Morhof. Cap. "de Libris damnatis.")

[2] The same Chamber, doubtless, that was prepared for the reception of the Bourbons at the first Grand Fete, and which was ornamented (all "for the Deliverance of Europe") with fleurs de-lys.

[3] "To enable the individual who holds the office of Chancellor to maintain it in becoming splendor." (A loud laugh.)—Lord CASTLEREAGH'S Speech upon the Vice Chancellor's Bill.

[4] Mr. Leigh Hunt and his brother.



SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS.



THE INSURRECTION OF THE PAPERS.

A DREAM.

"It would be impossible for his Royal Highness to disengage his person from the accumulating pile of papers that encompassed it." —Lord CASTLEREAGH'S Speech upon Colonel M Mahon's Appointment, April 14, 1812.

Last night I tost and turned in bed, But could not sleep—at length I said, "I'll think of Viscount Castlereagh, "And of his speeches—that's the way." And so it was, for instantly I slept as sound as sound could be. And then I dreamt—so dread a dream! Fuseli has no such theme; Lewis never wrote or borrowed Any horror half so horrid!

Methought the Prince in whiskered state Before me at his breakfast sate; On one side lay unread Petitions, On t'other, Hints from five Physicians! Here tradesmen's bills,—official papers, Notes from my Lady, drams for vapors There plans of Saddles, tea and toast. Death-warrants and The Morning Post.

When lo! the Papers, one and all. As if at some magician's call. Began to flutter of themselves From desk and table, floor and shelves, And, cutting each some different capers, Advanced, oh jacobinic papers! As tho' they said, "Our sole design is "To suffocate his Royal Highness!" The Leader of this vile sedition Was a huge Catholic Petition, With grievances so full and heavy, It threatened worst of all the bevy; Then Common-Hall Addresses came In swaggering sheets and took their aim Right at the Regent's well-drest head, As if determined to be read. Next Tradesmen's bills began to fly, And Tradesmen's bills, we know, mount high; Nay even Death-warrants thought they'd best Be lively too and join the rest.

But, oh the basest of defections! His letter about "predilections"!— His own dear letter, void of grace, Now flew up in its parent's face! Shocked with this breach of filial duty, He just could murmur "et Tu Brute?" Then sunk, subdued upon the floor At Fox's bust, to rise no more!

I waked—and prayed, with lifted hand, "Oh! never may this Dream prove true; "Tho' paper overwhelms the land, "Let it not crush the Sovereign, too!"



PARODY OF A CELEBRATED LETTER.[1]

At length, dearest Freddy, the moment is night When, with Perceval's leave, I may throw my chains by; And, as time now is precious, the first thing I do Is to sit down and write a wise letter to you.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I meant before now to have sent you this Letter, But Yarmouth and I thought perhaps 'twould be better To wait till the Irish affairs are decided— (That is, till both Houses had prosed and divided, With all due appearance of thought and digestion)— For, tho' Hertford House had long settled the question, I thought it but decent, between me and you, That the two other Houses should settle it too.

I need not remind you how cursedly bad Our affairs were all looking, when Father went mad;[2] A strait waistcoat on him and restrictions on me, A more limited Monarchy could not well be. I was called upon then, in that moment of puzzle. To choose my own Minister—just as they muzzle A playful young bear, and then mock his disaster By bidding him choose out his own dancing-master.

I thought the best way, as a dutiful son, Was to do as Old Royalty's self would have done.[3] So I sent word to say, I would keep the whole batch in, The same chest of tools, without cleansing or patching: For tools of this kind, like Martinus's sconce.[4] Would loose all their beauty if purified once; And think—only think—if our Father should find. Upon graciously coming again to his mind,[5] That improvement had spoiled any favorite adviser— That Rose was grown honest, or Westmoreland wiser— That R—d—r was, even by one twinkle, the brighter— Or Liverpool speeches but half a pound lighter— What a shock to his old royal heart it would be! No!—far were such dreams of improvement from me: And it pleased me to find, at the House, where, you know,[6] There's such good mutton cutlets, and strong curacoa,[7] That the Marchioness called me a duteous old boy, And my Yarmouth's red whiskers grew redder for joy.

You know, my dear Freddy, how oft, if I would, By the law of last sessions I might have done good. I might have withheld these political noodles From knocking their heads against hot Yankee Doodles; I might have told Ireland I pitied her lot, Might have soothed her with hope—but you know I did not.

And my wish is, in truth, that the best of old fellows Should not, on recovering, have cause to be jealous, But find that while he has been laid on the shelf We've been all of us nearly as mad as himself. You smile at my hopes—but the Doctors and I Are the last that can think the King ever will die.[8]

A new era's arrived[9]—tho' you'd hardly believe it— And all things of course must be new to receive it. New villas, new fetes (which even Waithman attends)— New saddles, new helmets, and—why not new friends?

* * * * *

I repeat it, "New Friends"—for I cannot describe The delight I am in with this Perceval tribe. Such capering!—Such vaporing!—Such rigor!—Such vigor! North, South, East, and West, they have cut such a figure, That soon they will bring the whole world round our ears, And leave us no friends—but Old Nick and Algiers.

When I think of the glory they've beamed on my chains, 'Tis enough quite to turn my illustrious brains. It is true we are bankrupts in commerce and riches, But think how we find our Allies in new breeches! We've lost the warm hearts of the Irish, 'tis granted, But then we've got Java, an island much wanted, To put the last lingering few who remain, Of the Walcheren warriors, out of their pain. Then how Wellington fights! and how squabbles his brother! For Papists the one and with Papists the other; One crushing Napoleon by taking a City, While t'other lays waste a whole Catholic Committee. Oh deeds of renown!—shall I boggle or flinch, With such prospects before me? by Jove, not an inch. No—let England's affairs go to rack, if they will, We'll look after the affairs of the Continent still; And with nothing at home but starvation and riot, Find Lisbon in bread and keep Sicily quiet.

I am proud to declare I have no predilections,[10] My heart is a sieve where some scattered affections Are just danced about for a moment or two, And the finer they are, the more sure to run thro'; Neither feel I resentments, nor wish there should come ill To mortal—except (now I think on't) Beau Brummel, Who threatened last year, in a superfine passion, To cut me and bring the old King into fashion. This is all I can lay to my conscience at present; When such is my temper, so neutral, so pleasant, So royally free from all troublesome feelings, So little encumbered by faith in my dealings (And that I'm consistent the world will allow, What I was at Newmarket the same I am now). When such are my merits (you know I hate cracking), I hope, like the Vender of Best Patent Blacking, "To meet with the generous and kind approbation "Of a candid, enlightened, and liberal nation."

By the by, ere I close this magnificent Letter, (No man, except Pole, could have writ you a better,) 'Twould please me if those, whom I've humbugged so long[11] With the notion (good men!) that I knew right from wrong, Would a few of them join me—mind, only a few— To let too much light in on me never would do; But even Grey's brightness shan't make me afraid, While I've Camden and Eldon to fly to for shade; Nor will Holland's clear intellect do us much harm, While there's Westmoreland near him to weaken the charm. As for Moira's high spirit, if aught can subdue it. Sure joining with Hertford and Yarmouth will do it! Between R-d-r and Wharton let Sheridan sit, And the fogs will soon quench even Sheridan's wit: And against all the pure public feeling that glows Even in Whitbread himself we've a Host in George Rose! So in short if they wish to have Places, they may, And I'll thank you to tell all these matters to Grey.[12] Who, I doubt not, will write (as there's no time to lose) By the twopenny post to tell Grenville the news; And now, dearest Fred (tho' I've no predilection), Believe me yours always with truest affection.

P.S. A copy of this is to Perceval going[13] Good Lord, how St. Stephen's will ring with his crowing!

[1] Letter from his Royal Highness the Prince Regent to the Duke of York, Feb. 13, 1812.

[2] "I think it hardly necessary to call your recollection to the recent circumstances under which I assumed the authority delegated to me by Parliament.—Prince's Letter.

[3] "My sense of duty to our Royal father solely decided that choice."— Ibid.

[4] The antique shield of Martinus Scriblerus, which, upon scouring, turned out to be only an old sconce.

[5] "I waived any personal gratification, in order that his Majesty might resume, on his restoration to health, every power and prerogative," etc.— Prince's Letter.

[6] "And I have the satisfaction of knowing that such was the opinion of persons for whose judgment," etc—Ibid.

[7] The letter-writer's favorite luncheon.

[8] I certainly am the last person in the kingdom to whom it can be permitted to despair of our royal father's recovery."—Prince's Letter.

[9] "A new era is now arrived, and I cannot but reflect with satisfaction," etc.—Ibid.

[10] "I have no predilections to indulge,—no resentments to gratify."— Prince's Letter.

[11] "I cannot conclude without expressing the gratification I should feel if some of those persons with whom the early habits of my public life were formed would strengthen my hands, and constitute a part of my government"— Prince's Letter.

[12] "You are authorized to communicate these sentiments to Lord Grey, who, I have no doubt, will make them known to Lord Grenville."— Prince's Letter.

[13] "I shall send a copy of this letter immediately to Mr. Perceval."- Prince's Letter.



ANACREONTIC

TO A PLUMASSIER.

Fine and feathery artisan, Best of Plumists (if you can With your art so far presume) Make for me a Prince's Plume— Feathers soft and feathers rare, Such as suits a Prince to wear.

First thou downiest of men, Seek me out a fine Pea-hen; Such a Hen, so tall and grand, As by Juno's side might stand, If there were no cocks at hand. Seek her feathers, soft as down, Fit to shine on Prince's crown; If thou canst not find them, stupid! Ask the way of Prior's Cupid.

Ranging these in order due, Pluck me next an old Cuckoo; Emblem of the happy fates Of easy, kind, cornuted mates. Pluck him well—be sure you do— Who wouldn't be an old Cuckoo, Thus to have his plumage blest, Beaming on a Royal crest?

Bravo, Plumist!—now what bird Shall we find for Plume the third? You must get a learned Owl, Bleakest of black-letter fowl— Bigot bird that hates the light,[1] Foe to all that's fair and bright. Seize his quills, (so formed to pen Books[2] that shun the search of men; Books that, far from every eye, In "sweltered venom sleeping" lie,) Stick them in between the two, Proud Pea-hen and Old Cuckoo. Now you have the triple feather, Bind the kindred stems together With a silken tie whose hue Once was brilliant Buff and Blue; Sullied now—alas, how much! Only fit for Yarmouth's touch.

There—enough—thy task is done; Present, worthy George's Son; Now, beneath, in letters neat, Write "I SERVE," and all's complete.

[1] Perceval.

[2] In allusion to "the Book" which created such a sensation at that period.



EXTRACTS

FROM THE DIARY OF A POLITICIAN.

Wednesday.

Thro' Manchester Square took a canter just now— Met the old yellow chariot[1] and made a low bow. This I did, of course, thinking 'twas loyal and civil, But got such a look—oh! 'twas black as the devil! How unlucky!—incog. he was travelling about, And I like a noodle, must go find him out. Mem.—when next by the old yellow chariot I ride, To remember there is nothing princely inside.

Thursday.

At Levee to-day made another sad blunder— What can be come over me lately, I wonder? The Prince was as cheerful as if all his life He had never been troubled with Friends or a Wife— "Fine weather," says he—to which I, who must prate, Answered, "Yes, Sir, but changeable rather, of late." He took it, I fear, for he lookt somewhat gruff, And handled his new pair of whiskers so rough, That before all the courtiers I feared they'd come off, And then, Lord, how Geramb[2] would triumphantly scoff!

Mem.—to buy for son Dicky some unguent or lotion To nourish his whiskers—sure road to promotion![3]

Saturday.

Last night a Concert—vastly gay— Given by Lady Castlereagh. My Lord loves music, and we know Has "two strings always to his bow."[4] In choosing songs, the Regent named "Had I a heart for falsehood framed." While gentle Hertford begged and prayed For "Young I am and sore afraid."

[1] The incog. vehicle of the Prince.

[2] Baron Geramb, the rival of his R. H. in whiskers.

[3] England is not the only country where merit of this kind is noticed and rewarded. "I remember," says Tavernier, "to have seen one of the King of Persia's porters, whose mustaches were so long that he could tie them behind his neck, for which reason he had a double pension."

[4] A rhetorical figure used by Lord Castlereagh, in one of his speeches.



EPIGRAM.

What news to-day?—"Oh! worse and worse— "Mac[1] is the Prince's Privy Purse!"— The Prince's Purse! no, no, you fool, You mean the Prince's Ridicule.

[1] Colonel M'Mahon.



KING CRACK[1] AND HIS IDOLS.

WRITTEN AFTER THE LATE NEGOTIATION FOR A NEW MINISTRY.

King Crack was the best of all possible Kings, (At least, so his Courtiers would swear to you gladly,) But Crack now and then would do heterodox things, And at last took to worshipping Images sadly.

Some broken-down Idols, that long had been placed In his father's old Cabinet, pleased him so much, That he knelt down and worshipt, tho'—such was his taste!— They were monstrous to look at and rotten to touch.

And these were the beautiful Gods of King Crack!— But his People disdaining to worship such things Cried aloud, one and all, "Come, your Godships must pack— "You'll not do for us, tho' you may do for Kings."

Then trampling these images under their feet, They sent Crack a petition, beginning "Great Caesar! "We're willing to worship; but only entreat "That you'll find us some decenter godheads than these are."

"I'll try," says King Crack—so they furnisht him models Of better shaped Gods but he sent them all back; Some were chiselled too fine, some had heads stead of noddles, In short they were all much too godlike for Crack.

So he took to his darling old Idols again, And just mending their legs and new bronzing their faces, In open defiance of Gods and of man, Set the monsters up grinning once more in their places.

[1] One of these antediluvian Princes, with whom Manetho and Whiston seem so intimately acquainted. If we had the Memoirs of Thoth, from which Manetho compiled his History, we should find, I dare say, that Crack was only a Regent, and that he, perhaps, succeeded Typhon, who (as Whiston says) was the last King of the Antediluvian Dynasty.



WHAT'S MY THOUGHT LIKE?

Quest. Why is a Pump like Viscount Castlereagh? Answ. Because it is a slender thing of wood, That up and down its awkward arm doth sway, And coolly spout and spout and spout away, In one weak, washy, everlasting flood!



EPIGRAM.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A CATHOLIC DELEGATE AND HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF CUMBERLAND.

Said his Highness to Ned,[1] with that grim face of his, "Why refuse us the Veto, dear Catholic Neddy?" "Because, Sir," said Ned, looking full in his phiz, "You're forbidding enough, in all conscience, already!"

[1] Edward Byrne the head of the Delegates of the Irish Catholics.



WREATHS FOR THE MINISTERS.

AN ANACREONTIC.

Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers! Haste thee from old Brompton's bowers— Or, (if sweeter that abode) From the King's well-odored Road, Where each little nursery bud Breathes the dust and quaffs the mud. Hither come and gayly twine Brightest herbs and flowers of thine Into wreaths for those who rule us, Those who rule and (some say) fool us— Flora, sure, will love to please England's Household Deities![1]

First you must then, willy-nilly, Fetch me many an orange lily— Orange of the darkest dye Irish Gifford can supply;— Choose me out the longest sprig, And stick it in old Eldon's wig.

Find me next a Poppy posy, Type of his harangues so dozy, Garland gaudy, dull and cool, To crown the head of Liverpool. 'Twill console his brilliant brows For that loss of laurel boughs, Which they suffered (what a pity!) On the road to Paris City.

Next, our Castlereagh to crown, Bring me from the County Down, Withered Shamrocks which have been Gilded o'er to hide the green— (Such as Headfort brought away From Pall-Mall last Patrick's Day)[2]— Stitch the garland thro' and thro' With shabby threads of every hue— And as, Goddess!—entre nous— His Lordship loves (tho' best of men) A little torture now and then, Crimp the leaves, thou first of Syrens, Crimp them with thy curling-irons.

That's enough—away, away— Had I leisure, I could say How the oldest rose that grows Must be pluckt to deck Old Rose— How the Doctor's[3] brow should smile Crowned with wreaths of camomile. But time presses—to thy taste I leave the rest, so, prithee, haste!

[1] The ancients, in like manner, crowned their Lares, or Household Gods.

[2] Certain tinsel imitations of the Shamrock which are distributed by the Servants of Carleton House every Patrick's Day.

[3] The sobriquet given to Lord Sidmouth.



EPIGRAM.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A DOWAGER AND HER MAID ON THE NIGHT OF LORD YARMOUTH'S FETE.

"I want the Court Guide," said my lady, "to look "If the House, Seymour Place, be at 30. or 20."— "We've lost the Court Guide, Ma'am, but here's the Red Book. "Where you'll find, I dare say, Seymour Places in plenty!"



HORACE, ODE XI. LIB. II.

FREELY TRANSLATED BY THE PRINCE REGENT.[1]

Come, Yarmouth, my boy, never trouble your brains, About what your old crony, The Emperor Boney, Is doing or brewing on Muscovy's plains;

Nor tremble, my lad, at the state of our granaries: Should there come famine, Still plenty to cram in You always shall have, my dear Lord of the Stannaries.

Brisk let us revel, while revel we may; For the gay bloom of fifty soon passes away, And then people get fat, And infirm, and—all that, And a wig (I confess it) so clumsily sits, That it frightens the little Loves out of their wits;

Thy whiskers, too, Yarmouth!—alas, even they, Tho' so rosy they burn, Too quickly must turn (What a heart-breaking change for thy whiskers!) to Grey.

Then why, my Lord Warden, oh! why should you fidget Your mind about matters you don't understand? Or why should you write yourself down for an idiot, Because "you," forsooth, "have the pen in your hand!"

Think, think how much better Than scribbling a letter, (Which both you and I Should avoid by the by,) How much pleasanter 'tis to sit under the bust Of old Charley,[2] my friend here, and drink like a new one;

While Charley looks sulky and frowns at me, just As the Ghost in the Pantomime frowns at Don Juan. To Crown us, Lord Warden, In Cumberland's garden Grows plenty of monk's hood in venomous sprigs: While Otto of Roses Refreshing all noses Shall sweetly exhale from our whiskers and wigs.

What youth of the Household will cool our Noyau In that streamlet delicious, That down midst the dishes, All full of gold fishes, Romantic doth flow?— Or who will repair Unto Manchester Square, And see if the gentle Marchesa be there?

Go—bid her haste hither, And let her bring with her The newest No-Popery Sermon that's going— Oh! let her come, with her dark tresses flowing, All gentle and juvenile, curly and gay, In the manner of—Ackerman's Dresses for May!

[1] This and the following are extracted from a Work, which may, some time or other, meet the eye of the Public—entitled "Odes of Horace, done into English by several Persons of Fashion."

[2] Charles Fox.



HORACE, ODE XXII. LIB. I.

FREELY TRANSLATED BY LORD ELDON.

The man who keeps a conscience pure, (If not his own, at least his Prince's,) Thro' toil and danger walks secure, Looks big and black and never winces.

No want has he of sword or dagger, Cockt hat or ringlets of Geramb; Tho' Peers may laugh and Papists swagger, He doesn't care one single damn.

Whether midst Irish chairmen going. Or thro' St. Giles's alleys dim, Mid drunken Sheelahs, blasting, blowing, No matter, 'tis all one to him.

For instance, I, one evening late, Upon a gay vacation sally, Singing the praise of Church and State, Got (God knows how) to Cranbourne Alley.

When lo! an Irish Papist darted Across my path, gaunt, grim, and big— I did but frown and off he started, Scared at me even without my wig.

Yet a more fierce and raw-boned dog Goes not to Mass in Dublin City, Nor shakes his brogue o'er Allen's Bog, Nor spouts in Catholic Committee.

Oh! place me midst O'Rourkes, O'Tooles, The ragged royal-blood of Tara; Or place me where Dick Martin rules The houseless wilds of Connemara;[1]

Of Church and State I'll warble still, Though even Dick Martin's self should grumble; Sweet Church and State, like Jack and Jill, So lovingly upon a hill— Ah! ne'er like Jack and Jill to tumble![2]

[1] I must here remark, that the said Dick Martin being a very good fellow, it was not at all fair to make a "malus Jupiter" of him.

[2] There cannot be imagined a more happy illustration of the inseparability of Church and State, and their (what is called) "standing and falling together," than this ancient apologue of Jack and Jill. Jack, of course, represents the State in this ingenious little Allegory.

Jack fell down, And broke his Crown, And Jill came tumbling after.



THE NEW COSTUME OF THE MINISTERS.

—nova monstra creavit. OVID. "Metamorph." 1. i. v. 417.

Having sent off the troops of brave Major Camac, With a swinging horse-tail at each valorous back. And such helmets, God bless us! as never deckt any Male creature before, except Signor Giovanni— "Let's see," said the Regent (like Titus, perplext With the duties of empire,) "whom shall I dress next?"

He looks in the glass—but perfection is there, Wig, whiskers, and chin-tufts all right to a hair;[1] Not a single ex-curl on his forehead he traces— For curls are like Ministers, strange as the case is, The falser they are, the more firm in their places. His coat he next views—but the coat who could doubt? For his Yarmouth's own Frenchified hand cut it out; Every pucker and seam were made matters of state, And a Grand Household Council was held on each plait.

Then whom shall he dress? shall he new-rig his brother, Great Cumberland's Duke, with some kickshaw or other? And kindly invent him more Christianlike shapes For his feather-bed neckcloths and pillory capes. Ah! no—here his ardor would meet with delays, For the Duke had been lately packt up in new Stays, So complete for the winter, he saw very plain 'Twould be devilish hard work to unpack him again.

So what's to be done?—there's the Ministers, bless 'em!— As he made the puppets, why shouldn't he dress 'em? "An excellent thought!—call the tailors—be nimble— "Let Cum bring his spy-glass, and Hertford her thimble; "While Yarmouth shall give us, in spite of all quizzers, "The last Paris cut with his true Gallic scissors."

So saying, he calls Castlereagh and the rest Of his heaven-born statesmen, to come and be drest. While Yarmouth, with snip-like and brisk expedition, Cuts up all at once a large Catholic Petition In long tailors' measures, (the Prince crying "Well-done!") And first puts in hand my Lord Chancellor Eldon.

[1] That model of Princes, the Emperor Commodus, was particularly luxurious in the dressing and ornamenting of his hair. His conscience, however, would not suffer him to trust himself with a barber, and he used, accordingly, to burn off his beard.



CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN A LADY AND GENTLEMAN,

UPON THE ADVANTAGE OF (WHAT IS CALLED) "HAVING LAW[1] ON ONE'S SIDE."

The Gentleman's Proposal.

Legge aurea, S'ei piace, ei lice."

Come fly to these arms nor let beauties so bloomy To one frigid owner be tied; Your prudes may revile and your old ones look gloomy, But, dearest, we've Law on our side.

Oh! think the delight of two lovers congenial, Whom no dull decorums divide; Their error how sweet and their raptures how venial, When once they've got Law on their side.

'Tis a thing that in every King's reign has been done too: Then why should it now be decried? If the Father has done it why shouldn't the Son too? For so argues Law on our side.

And even should our sweet violation of duty By cold-blooded jurors be tried, They can but bring it in "misfortune," my beauty, As long as we've Law on our side.

The Lady's Answer.

Hold, hold, my good Sir, go a little more slowly; For grant me so faithless a bride, Such sinners as we, are a little too lovely, To hope to have Law on our side.

Had you been a great Prince, to whose star shining o'er 'em The People should look for their guide, Then your Highness (and welcome!) might kick down decorum— You'd always have Law on your side.

Were you even an old Marquis, in mischief grown hoary, Whose heart tho' it long ago died To the pleasures of vice, is alive to its glory— You still would have Law on your side.

But for you, Sir, Crim. Con. is a path full of troubles; By my advice therefore abide, And leave the pursuit to those Princes and Nobles Who have such a Law on their side.

[1] In allusion to Lord Ellenborough.



OCCASIONAL ADDRESS

FOR THE OPENING OF THE NEW THEATRE OF ST. STEPHEN,

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN BY THE PROPRIETOR IN FULL COSTUME, ON THE 24TH OF NOVEMBER, 1812.

This day a New House for your edification We open, most thinking and right-headed nation! Excuse the materials—tho' rotten and bad, They're the best that for money just now could be had; And if echo the charm of such houses should be, You will find it shall echo my speech to a T.

As for actors, we've got the old Company yet, The same motley, odd, tragicomical set; And considering they all were but clerks t'other day, It is truly surprising how well they can play. Our Manager,[1] (he who in Ulster was nurst, And sung Erin go Bragh for the galleries first, But on finding Pitt-interest a much better thing, Changed his note of a sudden to God save the King,) Still wise as he's blooming and fat as he's clever, Himself and his speeches as lengthy as ever. Here offers you still the full use of his breath, Your devoted and long-winded proser till death.

You remember last season, when things went perverse on. We had to engage (as a block to rehearse on) One Mr. Vansittart, a good sort of person, Who's also employed for this season to play, In "Raising the Wind," and "the Devil to Pay."[2] We expect too—at least we've been plotting and planning— To get that great actor from Liverpool, Canning; And, as at the Circus there's nothing attracts Like a good single combat brought in 'twixt the acts, If the Manager should, with the help of Sir Popham, Get up new diversions and Canning should stop 'em, Who knows but we'll have to announce in the papers, "Grand fight—second time—with additional capers."

Be your taste for the ludicrous, humdrum, or sad, There is plenty of each in this House to be had. Where our Manager ruleth, there weeping will be, For a dead hand at tragedy always was he; And there never was dealer in dagger and cup, Who so smilingly got all his tragedies up. His powers poor Ireland will never forget, And the widows of Walcheren weep o'er them yet.

So much for the actors;—for secret machinery, Traps, and deceptions, and shifting of scenery, Yarmouth and Cum are the best we can find, To transact all that trickery business behind. The former's employed too to teach us French jigs, Keep the whiskers in curl and look after the wigs.

In taking my leave now, I've only to say, A few Seats in the House, not as yet sold away, May be had of the Manager, Pat Castlereagh.

[1] Lord Castlereagh.

[2] He had recently been appointed Chancellor of the Exchequer.



THE SALE OF THE TOOLS.

Instrumenta regni.—TACITUS.

Here's a choice set of Tools for you, Ge'mmen and Ladies, They'll fit you quite handy, whatever your trade is; (Except it be Cabinet-making;—no doubt, In that delicate service they're rather worn out; Tho' their owner, bright youth! if he'd had his own will, Would have bungled away with them joyously still.) You see they've been pretty well hackt—and alack! What tool is there job after job will not hack? Their edge is but dullish it must be confest, And their temper, like Ellenborough's, none of the best; But you'll find them good hardworking Tools, upon trying, Were't but for their brass they are well worth the buying; They're famous for making blinds, sliders, and screens, And are some of them excellent turning machines.

The first Tool I'll put up (they call it a Chancellor), Heavy concern to both purchaser and seller. Tho' made of pig iron yet worthy of note 'tis, 'Tis ready to melt at a half minute's notice.[1] Who bids? Gentle buyer! 'twill turn as thou shapest; 'Twill make a good thumb-screw to torture a Papist; Or else a cramp-iron to stick in the wall Of some church that old women are fearful will fall; Or better, perhaps, (for I'm guessing at random,) A heavy drag-chain for some Lawyer's old Tandem. Will nobody bid? It is cheap, I am sure, Sir— Once, twice,—going, going,—thrice, gone!—it is yours, Sir. To pay ready money you sha'n't be distrest, As a bill at long date suits the Chancellor best.

Come, where's the next Tool?— Oh! 'tis here in a trice— This implement, Ge'mmen, at first was a Vice; (A tenacious and close sort of tool that will let Nothing out of its grasp it once happens to get;) But it since has received a new coating of Tin, Bright enough for a Prince to behold himself in. Come, what shall we say for it? briskly! bid on, We'll the sooner get rid of it—going—quite gone. God be with it, such tools, if not quickly knockt down, Might at last cost their owner—how much? why, a Crown!

The next Tool I'll set up has hardly had handsel or Trial as yet and is also a Chancellor— Such dull things as these should be sold by the gross; Yet, dull as it is, 'twill be found to shave close, And like other close shavers, some courage to gather, This blade first began by a flourish on leather.[2] You shall have it for nothing—then, marvel with me At the terrible tinkering work there must be, Where a Tool such as this is (I'll leave you to judge it) Is placed by ill luck at the top of the Budget!

[1] An allusion to Lord Eldon's lachrymose tendencies.

[2] Of the taxes proposed by Mr. Vansittart, that principally opposed in Parliament was the additional duty on leather."—Ann. Register.



LITTLE MAN AND LITTLE SOUL.

A BALLAD.

To the tune of "There was a little man, and he wooed a little maid."

DEDICATED TO THE RT. HON. CHARLES ABBOT.

arcades ambo et cantare pares

1813.

There was a little Man and he had a little Soul, And he said, "Little Soul, let us try, try, try. "Whether it's within our reach "To make up a little Speech, "Just between little you and little I, I, I, "Just between little you and little I!"

Then said his little Soul, Peeping from her little hole, "I protest, little Man, you are stout, stout, stout, "But, if it's not uncivil, "Pray tell me what the devil, "Must our little, little speech be about, bout, bout, "Must our little, little speech be about?"

The little Man lookt big, With the assistance of his wig, And he called his little Soul to order, order, order, Till she feared he'd make her jog in To jail, like Thomas Croggan, (As she wasn't Duke or Earl) to reward her, ward her, ward her, As she wasn't Duke or Earl, to reward her.

The little Man then spoke, "Little Soul, it is no joke, "For as sure as Jacky Fuller loves a sup, sup, sup, "I will tell the Prince and People "What I think of Church and Steeple. "And my little patent plan to prop them up, up, up, "And my little patent plan to prop them up."

Away then, cheek by jowl, Little Man and little Soul Went and spoke their little speech to a tittle, tittle, tittle, And the world all declare That this priggish little pair Never yet in all their lives lookt so little, little, little. Never yet in all their lives lookt so little!



REINFORCEMENTS FOR LORD WELLINGTON.

suosque tibi commendat, Troja Penates hos cape fatorum comites. VERGIL.

1813.

As recruits in these times are not easily got And the Marshal must have them—pray, why should we not, As the last and, I grant it, the worst of our loans to him, Ship off the Ministry, body and bones to him? There's not in all England, I'd venture to swear, Any men we could half so conveniently spare; And tho' they've been helping the French for years past, We may thus make them useful to England at last. Castlereagh in our sieges might save some disgraces, Being used to the taking and keeping of places; And Volunteer Canning, still ready for joining, Might show off his talent for sly under-mining. Could the Household but spare us its glory and pride, Old Headfort at horn-works again might be tried, And as Chief Justice make a bold charge at his side: While Vansittart could victual the troops upon tick, And the Doctor look after the baggage and sick.

Nay, I do not see why the great Regent himself Should in times such as these stay at home on the shelf: Tho' thro' narrow defiles he's not fitted to pass, Yet who could resist, if he bore down en masse? And tho' oft of an evening perhaps he might prove, Like our Spanish confederates, "unable to move,"[1] Yet there's one thing in war of advantage unbounded, Which is, that he could not with ease be surrounded.

In my next I shall sing of their arms and equipment: At present no more, but—good luck to the shipment!

[1] The character given to the Spanish soldier, in Sir John Murray's memorable despatch.



HORACE, ODE I. LIB. III.

A FRAGMENT.

odi profanum, valgus et arceo; favete linguis: carmina non prius audila Musarum sacerdos virginibus puerisque canto. regum timendorum in proprios greges, reges in ipsos imperium est Jovis.

1813.

I hate thee, oh, Mob, as my Lady hates delf; To Sir Francis I'll give up thy claps and thy hisses, Leave old Magna Charta to shift for itself, And, like Godwin, write books for young masters and misses. Oh! it is not high rank that can make the heart merry, Even monarchs themselves are not free from mishap: Tho' the Lords of Westphalia must quake before Jerry, Poor Jerry himself has to quake before Nap.



HORACE, ODE XXXVIII. LIB. I.

A FRAGMENT.

persico odi, puer, adparatus; displicent nexae philyra coronae; mitte sectari, Rosa quo locorum sera moretur.

TRANSLATED BY A TREASURY CLERK, WHILE WAITING DINNER FOR THE RIGHT HON. GEORGE ROBE.

Boy, tell the Cook that I hate all nicknackeries. Fricassees, vol-au-vents, puffs, and gim-crackeries— Six by the Horse-Guards!—old Georgy is late— But come—lay the table-cloth—zounds! do not wait, Nor stop to inquire, while the dinner is staying, At which of his places Old Rose is delaying!

* * * * *



IMPROMPTU.

UPON BEING OBLIGED TO LEAVE A PLEASANT PARTY, FROM THE WANT OF A PAIR OF BREECHES TO DRESS FOR DINNER IN.

1810.

Between Adam and me the great difference is, Tho' a paradise each has been forced to resign, That he never wore breeches, till turned out of his, While for want of my breeches, I'm banisht from mine.



LORD WELLINGTON AND THE MINISTERS.

1813.

So gently in peace Alcibiades smiled, While in battle he shone forth so terribly grand, That the emblem they graved on his seal, was a child With a thunderbolt placed in its innocent hand.

Oh Wellington, long as such Ministers wield Your magnificent arm, the same emblem will do; For while they're in the Council and you in the Field. We've the babies in them, and the thunder in you!



The following trifles, having enjoyed in their circulation through the newspapers all the celebrity and length of life to which they were entitled, would have been suffered to pass quietly into oblivion without pretending to any further distinction, had they not already been published, in a collective form, both in London and Paris, and, in each case, been mixed up with a number of other productions, to which, whatever may be their merit, the author of the following pages has no claim. A natural desire to separate his own property, worthless as it is, from that of others, is, he begs to say, the chief motive of the publication of this volume.



TO SIR HUDSON LOWE.

effare causam nominis, utrumne mores hoc tui nomen dedere, an nomen hoc secuta morum regula. AUSONIUS.

1816.

Sir Hudson Lowe, Sir Hudson Low, (By name, and ah! by nature so) As thou art fond of persecutions, Perhaps thou'st read, or heard repeated, How Captain Gulliver was treated, When thrown among the Lilliputians.

They tied him down—these little men did— And having valiantly ascended Upon the Mighty Man's protuberance, They did so strut!—upon my soul, It must have been extremely droll To see their pigmy pride's exuberance!

And how the doughty mannikins Amused themselves with sticking pins And needles in the great man's breeches: And how some very little things, That past for Lords, on scaffoldings Got up and worried him with speeches,

Alas, alas! that it should happen To mighty men to be caught napping!— Tho' different too these persecutions; For Gulliver, there, took the nap, While, here, the Nap, oh sad mishap, Is taken by the Lilliputians!



AMATORY COLLOQUY BETWEEN BANK AND GOVERNMENT.

1826.

BANK.

Is all then forgotten? those amorous pranks You and I in our youth, my dear Government, played; When you called me the fondest, the truest of Banks, And enjoyed the endearing advances I made!

When left to ourselves, unmolested and free, To do all that a dashing young couple should do, A law against paying was laid upon me, But none against owing, dear helpmate, on you.

And is it then vanisht?—that "hour (as Othello So happily calls it) of Love and Direction?" And must we, like other fond doves, my dear fellow, Grow good in our old age and cut the connection?

GOVERNMENT.

Even so, my beloved Mrs. Bank, it must be; This paying in cash plays the devil with wooing: We've both had our swing, but I plainly foresee There must soon be a stop to our billing and cooing.

Propagation in reason—a small child or two— Even Reverend Malthus himself is a friend to; The issue of some folks is moderate and few— But ours, my dear corporate Bank, there's no end to!

So—hard tho' it be on a pair, who've already Disposed of so many pounds, shillings and pence; And in spite of that pink of prosperity, Freddy,[1] So lavish of cash and so sparing of sense—

The day is at hand, my Papyria[2] Venus, When—high as we once used to carry our capers— Those soft billet-doux we're now passing between us, Will serve but to keep Mrs. Coutts in curl-papers:

And when—if we still must continue our love, (After all that has past)—our amour, it is clear, Like that which Miss Danaee managed with Jove, Must all be transacted in bullion, my dear!

February, 1826.

[1] Honorable Fredrick Robinson.

[2] So called, to distinguish her from the Aure or Golden Venus.



DIALOGUE BETWEEN A SOVEREIGN AND A ONE POUND NOTE.

"o ego non felix, quam tu fugis, ut pavet acres agna lupos, capreaeque leones."—HOR.

Said a Sovereign to a Note, In the pocket of his coat, Where they met in a neat purse of leather, "How happens it, I prithee, "That, tho' I'm wedded with thee, "Fair Pound, we can never live together?

"Like your sex, fond of change "With Silver you can range, "And of lots of young sixpences be mother; "While with me—upon my word, "Not my Lady and my Lord "Of Westmouth see so little of each other!"

The indignant Note replied (Lying crumpled by his side), "Shame, shame, it is yourself that roam, Sir— "One cannot look askance, "But, whip! you're off to France, "Leaving nothing but old rags at home, Sir.

"Your scampering began "From the moment Parson Van, "Poor man, made us one in Love's fetter; "'For better or for worse' "Is the usual marriage curse, "But ours is all 'worse' and no 'better.'

"In vain are laws past, "There's nothing holds you fast, "Tho' you know, sweet Sovereign, I adore you— "At the smallest hint in life, "You forsake your lawful wife, "As other Sovereigns did before you.

"I flirt with Silver, true— "But what can ladies do, "When disowned by their natural protectors? "And as to falsehood, stuff! "I shall soon be false enough, "When I get among those wicked Bank Directors."

The Sovereign, smiling on her, Now swore upon his honor, To be henceforth domestic and loyal; But, within an hour or two, Why—I sold him to a Jew, And he's now at No. 10, Palais Royal.



AN EXPOSTULATION TO LORD KING.

"quem das finem, rex magne, laborum?" VERGIL.

1826.

How can you, my Lord, thus delight to torment all The Peers of the realm about cheapening their corn,[1] When you know, if one hasn't a very high rental, 'Tis hardly worth while being very high born?

Why bore them so rudely, each night of your life, On a question, my Lord, there's so much to abhor in? A question-like asking one, "How is your wife?"— At once so confounded domestic and foreign.

As to weavers, no matter how poorly they feast; But Peers and such animals, fed up for show, (Like the well-physickt elephant, lately deceased,) Take a wonderful quantum of cramming, you know.

You might see, my dear Baron, how bored and distrest Were their high noble hearts by your merciless tale, When the force of the agony wrung even a jest From the frugal Scotch wit of my Lord Lauderdale![2]

Bright Peer! to whom Nature and Berwickshire gave A humor endowed with effects so provoking, That when the whole House looks unusually grave You may always conclude that Lord Lauderdale's joking!

And then, those unfortunate weavers of Perth— Not to know the vast difference Providence dooms Between weavers of Perth and Peers of high birth, 'Twixt those who have heirlooms, and those who've but looms!

"To talk now of starving!"—as great Athol said[3]— (And the nobles all cheered and the bishops all wondered,) "When some years ago he and others had fed "Of these same hungry devils about fifteen hundred!"

It follows from hence—and the Duke's very words Should be publisht wherever poor rogues of this craft are— That weavers, once rescued from starving by Lords, Are bound to be starved by said Lords ever after.

When Rome was uproarious, her knowing patricians Made "Bread and the Circus" a cure for each row; But not so the plan of our noble physicians, "No Bread and the Treadmill,"'s the regimen now.

So cease, my dear Baron of Ockham, your prose, As I shall my poetry—neither convinces; And all we have spoken and written but shows, When you tread on a nobleman's corn,[4] how he winces.

[1] See the proceedings of the Lords, Wednesday, March 1, 1826, when Lord King was severely reproved by several of the noble Peers, for making so many speeches against the Corn Laws.

[2] This noble Earl said, that "when he heard the petition came from ladies' boot and shoe-makers, he thought it must be against the 'corns' which they inflicted on the fair sex."

[3] The Duke of Athol said, that "at a former period, when these weavers were in great distress, the landed interest of Perth had supported 1500 of them, it was a poor return for these very men now to petition against the persons who had fed them."

[4] An improvement, we flatter ourselves, on Lord L.'s joke.



THE SINKING FUND CRIED.

"Now what, we ask, is become of this Sinking Fund—these eight millions of surplus above expenditure, which were to reduce the interest of the national debt by the amount of four hundred thousand pounds annually? Where, indeed, is the Sinking Fund itself?" —The Times.

Take your bell, take your bell, Good Crier, and tell To the Bulls and the Bears, till their ears are stunned, That, lost or stolen, Or fallen thro' a hole in The Treasury floor, is the Sinking Fund!

O yes! O yes! Can anybody guess What the deuce has become of this Treasury wonder? It has Pitt's name on't, All brass, in the front, And Robinson's scrawled with a goose-quill under.

Folks well knew what Would soon be its lot, When Frederick and Jenky set hob-nobbing,[1] And said to each other, "Suppose, dear brother, "We make this funny old Fund worth robbing."

We are come, alas! To a very pretty pass— Eight Hundred Millions of score, to pay,

With but Five in the till, To discharge the bill, And even that Five, too, whipt away!

Stop thief! stop thief!— From the Sub to the Chief, These Gemmen of Finance are plundering cattle— Call the watch—call Brougham, Tell Joseph Hume, That best of Charleys, to spring his rattle.

Whoever will bring This aforesaid thing To the well-known House of Robinson and Jenkin, Shall be paid, with thanks, In the notes of banks, Whose Funds have all learned "the Art of Sinking."

O yes! O yes! Can anybody guess What the devil has become of this Treasury wonder? It has Pitt's name on't, All brass, in the front, And Robinson's, scrawled with a goose-quill under.

[1] In 1824, when the Sinking Fund was raised by the imposition of new taxes to the sum of five millions.



ODE TO THE GODDESS CERES.

BY SIR THOMAS LETHBRIDGE.

"legiferoe Cereri Phoeboque."—VERGIL.

Dear Goddess of Corn whom the ancients, we know, (Among other odd whims of those comical bodies,) Adorned with somniferous poppies to show Thou wert always a true Country-gentleman's Goddess.

Behold in his best shooting-jacket before thee An eloquent 'Squire, who most humbly beseeches. Great Queen of Mark-lane (if the thing doesn't bore thee), Thou'lt read o'er the last of his—never-last speeches.

Ah! Ceres, thou knowest not the slander and scorn Now heapt upon England's 'Squirearchy, so boasted; Improving on Hunt,[1] 'tis no longer the Corn, 'Tis the growers of Corn that are now, alas! roasted.

In speeches, in books, in all shapes they attack us— Reviewers, economists—fellows no doubt That you, my dear Ceres and Venus and Bacchus And Gods of high fashion, know little about.

There's Bentham, whose English is all his own making,— Who thinks just as little of settling a nation As he would of smoking his pipe or of taking (What he himself calls) his "postprandial vibration."[2]

There are two Mr. Mills to whom those that love reading Thro' all that's unreadable call very clever;— And whereas Mill Senior makes war on good breeding, Mill Junior makes war on all breeding whatever!

In short, my dear Goddess, old England's divided Between ultra blockheads and superfine sages;— With which of these classes we landlords have sided Thou'lt find in my Speech if thou'lt read a few pages.

For therein I've proved to my own satisfaction And that of all 'Squires I've the honor of meeting That 'tis the most senseless and foul-mouthed detraction To say that poor people are fond of cheap eating.

On the contrary, such the "chaste notions"[3] of food That dwell in each pale manufacturer's heart, They would scorn any law, be it ever so good, That would make thee, dear Goddess, less dear than thou art!

And, oh! for Monopoly what a blest day, Whom the Land and the Silk[4] shall in fond combination (Like Sulky and Silky, that pair in the play,)[5] Cry out with one voice for High Rents and Starvation!

Long life to the Minister!—no matter who, Or how dull he may be, if with dignified spirit he Keeps the ports shut—and the people's mouths too— We shall all have a long run of Freddy's prosperity,

And, as for myself, who've, like Hannibal, sworn To hate the whole crew who would take our rents from us, Had England but One to stand by thee, Dear Corn, That last, honest Uni-Corn[6] would be Sir Thomas!

[1] A sort of "breakfast-power," composed of roasted corn, was about this time introduced by Mr. Hunt, as a substitute for coffee.

[2] The venerable Jeremy's phrase for his after-dinner walk.

[3] A phrase in one of Sir Thomas's last speeches.

[4] Great efforts were, at that time, making for the exclusion of foreign silk.

[5] "Road to Ruin."

[6] This is meant not so much for a pun, as in allusion to the natural history of the Unicorn, which is supposed to be, something between the Bos and the Asinus, and, as Rees's Cyclopaedia assures us, has a particular liking for everything "chaste."



A HYMN OF WELCOME AFTER THE RECESS.

"animas sapientiores fieri quiescendo."

And now-cross-buns and pancakes o'er— Hail, Lords and Gentlemen, once more! Thrice hail and welcome, Houses Twain! The short eclipse of April-Day Having (God grant it!) past away, Collective Wisdom, shine again!

Come, Ayes and Noes, thro' thick and thin,— With Paddy Holmes for whipper-in,— Whate'er the job, prepared to back it; Come, voters of Supplies—bestowers Of jackets upon trumpet-blowers, At eighty mortal pounds the jacket![1]

Come—free, at length, from Joint-Stock cares— Ye Senators of many Shares, Whose dreams of premium knew no boundary; So fond of aught like Company, That you would even have taken tea (Had you been askt) with Mr. Goundry.[2]

Come, matchless country-gentlemen; Come, wise Sir Thomas—wisest then When creeds and corn-lords are debated; Come, rival even the Harlot Red, And show how wholly into bread A 'Squire is transubstantiated,

Come, Lauderdale, and tell the world, That—surely as thy scratch is curled As never scratch was curled before— Cheap eating does more harm than good, And working-people spoiled by food, The less they eat, will work the more.

Come, Goulburn, with thy glib defence (Which thou'dst have made for Peter's Pence) Of Church-rates, worthy of a halter; Two pipes of port (old port, 'twas said By honest Newport)[3] bought and paid By Papists for the Orange Altar![4]

Come, Horton, with thy plan so merry For peopling Canada from Kerry— Not so much rendering Ireland quiet, As grafting on the dull Canadians That liveliest of earth's contagions, The bull-pock of Hibernian riot!

Come all, in short, ye wondrous men Of wit and wisdom, come again; Tho' short your absence, all deplore it— Oh, come and show, whate'er men say, That you can after April-Day, Be just as—sapient as before it.

[1] An item of expense which Mr. Hume in vain endeavored tog et rid of:— trumpeters, it appears like the men of All-Souls, must be "bene vestiti."

[2] The gentleman, lately before the public, who kept his Joint-Stock Tea Company all to himself, singing "Te solo adoro."

[3] Sir John Newport.

[4] This charge of two pipes of port for the sacramental wine is a precious specimen of the sort of rates levied upon their Catholic fellow- parishioners by the Irish Protestants. "The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine."



MEMORABILIA OF LAST WEEK.

MONDAY, MARCH 13, 1826.

The Budget—quite charming and witty—no hearing, For plaudits and laughs, the good things that were in it;— Great comfort to find, tho' the speech isn't cheering, That all its gay auditors were every minute.

What, still more prosperity!—mercy upon us, "This boy'll be the death of me"—oft as, already, Such smooth Budgeteers have genteelly undone us, For Ruin made easy there's no one like Freddy.

TUESDAY.

Much grave apprehension exprest by the Peers, Lest—calling to life the old Peachums and Lockitts— The large stock of gold we're to have in three years, Should all find its way into highwaymen's pockets![1]

WEDNESDAY.

Little doing—for sacred, oh Wednesday, thou art To the seven-o'-clock joys of full many a table— When the Members all meet, to make much of that part, With which they so rashly fell out in the Fable.

It appeared, tho', to-night, that—as church-wardens yearly, Eat up a small baby—those cormorant sinners. The Bankrupt Commissioners, bolt very nearly A moderate-sized bankrupt, tout chaud, for their dinners![2]

Nota bene—a rumor to-day, in the city, "Mr. Robinson just has resigned"—what a pity!

The Bulls and the Bears all fell a sobbing, When they heard of the fate of poor Cock Robin: While thus, to the nursery tune, so pretty, A murmuring Stock-dove breathed her ditty:—

Alas, poor Robin, he crowed as long And as sweet as a prosperous Cock could crow; But his note was small and the gold-finch's song Was a pitch too high for Robin to go. Who'll make his shroud?

"I," said the Bank, "tho' he played me a prank, "While I have a rag, poor Rob shall be rolled in't, "With many a pound I'll paper him round, "Like a plump rouleau—without the gold in it."

[1] "Another objection to a metallic currency was, that it produced a greater number of highway robberies."—Debate in the Lords.

[2] Mr. Abercromby's statement of the enormous tavern bills of the Commissioners of Bankrupts.



ALL IN THE FAMILY WAY.

A NEW PASTORAL BALLAD.

(SUNG IN THE CHARACTER OF BRITANNIA.)

"The Public Debt is due from ourselves to ourselves, and resolves itself into a Family Account."—Sir Robert Peel's Letter.

Tune—My banks are all furnisht with bees.

My banks are all furnisht with rags, So thick, even Freddy can't thin 'em; I've torn up my old money-bags, Having little or nought to put in 'em. My tradesmen are smashing by dozens, But this is all nothing, they say; For bankrupts since Adam are cousins,— So, it's all in the family way.

My Debt not a penny takes from me. As sages the matter explain;— Bob owes it to Tom, and then Tommy Just owes it to Bob back again. Since all have thus taken to owing, There's nobody left that can pay; And this is the way to keep going,— All quite in the family way.

My senators vote away millions, To put in Prosperity's budget; And tho' it were billions or trillions, The generous rogues wouldn't grudge it. 'Tis all but a family hop, 'Twas Pitt began dancing the hay; Hands round!—why the deuce should we stop? 'Tis all in the family way.

My laborers used to eat mutton, As any great man of the State does; And now the poor devils are put on Small rations of tea and potatoes. But cheer up, John, Sawney, and Paddy, The King is your father, they say; So even if you starve for your Daddy, 'Tis all in the family way.

My rich manufacturers tumble, My poor ones have nothing to chew; And even if themselves do not grumble Their stomachs undoubtedly do. But coolly to fast en famille, Is as good for the soul as to pray; And famine itself is genteel, When one starves in a family way.

I have found out a secret for Freddy, A secret for next Budget day; Tho' perhaps he may know it already, As he too's a sage in his way. When next for the Treasury scene he Announces "the Devil to pay," Let him write on the bills, "nota bene, "'Tis all in the family way."



BALLAD FOR THE CAMBRIDGE ELECTION.

"I authorized my Committee to take the step which they did, of proposing a fair comparison of strength, upon the understanding that whichever of the two should prove to be the weakest, should give way to the other." —Extract from Mr. W. J. Bankes's Letter to Mr. Goulbourn.

Bankes is weak, and Goulbourn too, No one e'er the fact denied;— Which is "weakest" of the two, Cambridge can alone decide. Choose between them, Cambridge, pray, Which is weakest, Cambridge, say.

Goulbourn of the Pope afraid is, Bankes, as much afraid as he; Never yet did two old ladies On this point so well agree. Choose between them, Cambridge, pray, Which is weakest. Cambridge, say.

Each a different mode pursues, Each the same conclusion reaches; Bankes is foolish in Reviews, Goulbourn foolish in his speeches. Choose between them, Cambridge, pray, Which is weakest, Cambridge, say.

Each a different foe doth damn, When his own affairs have gone ill; Bankes he damneth Buckingham, Goulbourn damneth Dan O'Connell. Choose between them, Cambridge, pray, Which is weakest, Cambridge, say. Once we know a horse's neigh Fixt the election to a throne, So whichever first shall bray Choose him, Cambridge, for thy own. Choose him, choose him by his bray, Thus elect him, Cambridge, pray.

June, 1826.



MR. ROGER DODSWORTH.

1826.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES.

Sir—Having just heard of the wonderful resurrection of Mr. Roger Dodsworth from under an avalanche, where he had remained, bien frappe, it seems, for the last 166 years, I hasten to impart to you a few reflections on the subject.—Yours, etc.

Laudator Temporis Acti.

What a lucky turn-up!—just as Eldon's withdrawing, To find thus a gentleman, frozen in the year Sixteen hundred and sixty, who only wants thawing To serve for our times quite as well as the Peer;—

To bring thus to light, not the Wisdom alone Of our Ancestors, such as 'tis found on our shelves, But in perfect condition, full-wigged and full-grown, To shovel up one of those wise bucks themselves!

Oh thaw Mr. Dodsworth and send him safe home— Let him learn nothing useful or new on the way; With his wisdom kept snug from the light let him come, And our Tories will hail him with "Hear!" and "Hurrah!"

What a God-send to them!—a good, obsolete man, Who has never of Locke or Voltaire been a reader;— Oh thaw Mr. Dodsworth as fast as you can, And the Lonsdales and Hertfords shall choose him for leader.

Yes, Sleeper of Ages, thou shalt be their chosen; And deeply with thee will they sorrow, good men, To think that all Europe has, since thou wert frozen, So altered thou hardly wilt know it again.

And Eldon will weep o'er each sad innovation Such oceans of tears, thou wilt fancy that he Has been also laid up in a long congelation, And is only now thawing, dear Roger, like thee.



COPY OF AN INTERCEPTED DESPATCH.

FROM HIS EXCELLENCY DON STREPITOSO DIABOLO, ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY TO HIS SATANIC MAJESTY.

St. James's Street, July 1, 1826.

Great Sir, having just had the good luck to catch An official young demon, preparing to go, Ready booted and spurred, with a black-leg despatch From the Hell here at Crockford's, to our Hell below—

I write these few lines to your Highness Satanic, To say that first having obeyed your directions And done all the mischief I could in "the Panic," My next special care was to help the Elections.

Well knowing how dear were those times to thy soul, When every good Christian tormented his brother, And caused, in thy realm, such a saving of coal, From all coming down, ready grilled by each other;

Remembering besides how it pained thee to part With the old Penal Code—that chef-d'oeuvre of Law, In which (tho' to own it too modest thou art) We could plainly perceive the fine touch of thy claw;

I thought, as we ne'er can those good times revive, (Tho' Eldon, with help from your Highness would try,) 'Twould still keep a taste for Hell's music alive, Could we get up a thundering No-Popery cry;—

That yell which when chorused by laics and clerics, So like is to ours, in its spirit and tone. That I often nigh laugh myself into hysterics, To think that Religion should make it her own.

So, having sent down for the original notes Of the chorus as sung by your Majesty's choir With a few pints of lava to gargle the throats Of myself and some others who sing it "with fire,"[1]

Thought I, "if the Marseillais Hymn could command "Such audience, tho' yelled by a Sans-culotte crew "What wonders shall we do, who've men in our band, "That not only wear breeches but petticoats too."

Such then were my hopes, but with sorrow, your Highness, I'm forced to confess—be the cause what it will, Whether fewness of voices or hoarseness or shyness,— Our Beelzebub Chorus has gone off but ill.

The truth is no placeman now knows his right key, The Treasury pitch-pipe of late is so various; And certain base voices, that lookt for a fee At the York music-meeting now think it precarious.

Even some of our Reverends might have been warmer,— Tho' one or two capital roarers we've had; Doctor Wise[2]is for instance a charming performer, And Huntingdon Maberley's yell was not bad!

Altogether however the thing was not hearty;— Even Eldon allows we got on but so so; And when next we attempt a No-Popery party, We must, please your Highness, recruit from below.

But hark! the young Black-leg is cracking his whip— Excuse me, Great Sir-there's no time to be civil;— The next opportunity shan't be let slip, But, till then, I'm, in haste, your most dutiful DEVIL.

July, 1826

[1] Con fuoco—a music-book direction.

[2] This reverend gentleman distinguished himself at the Reading election.



THE MILLENNIUM.

SUGGESTED BY THE LATE WORK OF THE REVEREND MR. IRVING "ON PROPHECY."

1826

A millennium at hand!—I'm delighted to hear it— As matters both public and private now go, With multitudes round us all starving or near it. A good, rich Millennium will come a-propos.

Only think, Master Fred, what delight to behold, Instead of thy bankrupt old City of Rags, A bran-new Jerusalem built all of gold, Sound bullion throughout from the roof to the flags—

A City where wine and cheap corn[1] shall abound— A celestial Cocaigne on whose buttery shelves We may swear the best things of this world will be found, As your Saints seldom fail to take care of themselves!

Thanks, reverend expounder of raptures Elysian, Divine Squintifobus who, placed within reach Of two opposite worlds, by a twist of your vision Can cast at the same time a sly look at each;—

Thanks, thanks for the hope thou affordest, that we May even in our own times a Jubilee share. Which so long has been promist by prophets like thee, And so often postponed, we began to despair.

There was Whiston[2] who learnedly took Prince Eugene For the man who must bring the Millennium about; There's Faber whose pious productions have been All belied ere his book's first edition was out;—

There was Counsellor Dobbs, too, an Irish M. P., Who discoursed on the subject with signal eclat, And, each day of his life sat expecting to see A Millennium break out in the town of Armagh![3]

There was also—but why should I burden my lay With your Brotherses, Southcotes, and names less deserving, When all past Millenniums henceforth must give way To the last new Millennium of Orator Irving.

Go on, mighty man,—doom them all to the shelf,— And when next thou with Prophecy troublest thy sconce, Oh forget not, I pray thee, to prove that thyself Art the Beast (Chapter iv.) that sees nine ways at once.

[1] "A measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley for a penny."—Rev. vi.

[2] When Whiston presented to Prince Eugene the Essay in which he attempted to connect his victories over the Turks with Revelation, the Prince is said to have replied, that "he was not aware he had ever had ever had honor of being known to St. John".

[3] Mr. Dobbs was a member of the Irish Parliament, and, on all other subjects but the Millennium, a very sensible person: he chose Armagh as the scene of his Millennium on account of the name Armageddon mentioned in Revelation.



THE THREE DOCTORS.

doctoribus loetamur tribus.

1826.

Tho' many great Doctors there be, There are three that all Doctors out-top, Doctor Eady, that famous M. D., Doctor Southey, and dear Doctor Slop.[1]

The purger, the proser, the bard— All quacks in a different style; Doctor Southey writes books by the yard. Doctor Eady writes puffs by the mile![2]

Doctor Slop, in no merit outdone By his scribbling or physicking brother, Can dose us with stuff like the one. Ay, and doze us with stuff like the other.

Doctor Eady good company keeps With "No Popery" scribes, on the walls; Doctor Southey as gloriously sleeps With "No Popery" scribes on the stalls.

Doctor Slop, upon subjects divine, Such bedlamite slaver lets drop, Taat if Eady should take the mad line, He'll be sure of a patient in Slop.

Seven millions of Papists, no less, Doctor Southey attacks, like a Turk; Doctor Eady, less bold, I confess, Attacks but his maid-of-all-work

Doctor Southey, for his grand attack, Both a laureate and pensioner is; While poor Doctor Eady, alack, Has been had up to Bow-street for his!

And truly, the law does so blunder, That tho' little blood has been spilt, he May probably suffer as, under The Chalking Act, known to be guilty.

So much for the merits sublime (With whose catalogue ne'er should I stop) Of the three greatest lights of our time, Doctor Eady and Southey and Slop!

Should you ask me, to which of the three Great Doctors the preference should fall, As a matter of course I agree Doctor Eady must go to the wall.

But as Southey with laurels is crowned, And Slop with a wig and a tail is, Let Eady's bright temples be bound With a swingeing "Corona Muralis!"[3]

[1] The editor of the Morning Herald, so nicknamed.

[2] Alluding to the display of this doctor's name, in chalk, on all the walls round the metropolis.

[3] A crown granted as a reward among the Romans to persons who performed any extraordinary exploits upon wall, such as scaling them, battering them, etc.—No doubt, writing upon them, to the extent Dr. Eady does, would equally establish a claim to the honor.



EPITAPH ON A TUFT-HUNTER.

Lament, lament, Sir Isaac Heard, Put mourning round thy page, Debrett, For here lies one who ne'er preferred A Viscount to a Marquis yet.

Beside him place the God of Wit, Before him Beauty's rosiest girls, Apollo for a star he'd quit, And Love's own sister for an Earl's.

Did niggard fate no peers afford, He took of course to peers' relations; And rather than not sport a Lord Put up with even the last creations;

Even Irish names could he but tag 'em With "Lord" and "Duke," were sweet to call; And at a pinch Lord Ballyraggum Was better than no Lord at all.

Heaven grant him now some noble nook, For rest his soul! he'd rather be Genteelly damned beside a Duke, Than saved in vulgar company.



ODE TO A HAT.

—altum aedificat caput." JUVENAL

1826.

Hail, reverent Hat!—sublime mid all The minor felts that round thee grovel;— Thou that the Gods "a Delta" call While meaner mortals call the "shovel." When on thy shape (like pyramid, Cut horizontally in two)[1] I raptured gaze, what dreams unbid Of stalls and mitres bless my view!

That brim of brims so sleekly good— Not flapt, like dull Wesleyans', down, But looking (as all churchmen's should) Devoutly upward—towards the crown.

Gods! when I gaze upon that brim, So redolent of Church all over, What swarms of Tithes in vision dim,— Some-pig-tailed, some like cherubim, With ducklings' wings—around it hover! Tenths of all dead and living things, That Nature into being brings, From calves and corn to chitterlings.

Say, holy Hat, that hast, of cocks, The very cock most orthodox. To which of all the well-fed throng Of Zion,[2] joy'st thou to belong? Thou'rt not Sir Harcourt Lees's—no- For hats grow like the heads that wear 'em: And hats, on heads like his, would grow Particularly harum-scarum.

Who knows but thou mayst deck the pate Of that famed Doctor Ad-mth-te, (The reverend rat, whom we saw stand On his hind-legs in Westmoreland,) Who changed so quick from blue to yellow, And would from yellow back to blue, And back again, convenient fellow, If 'twere his interest so to do.

Or haply smartest of triangles, Thou art the hat of Doctor Owen; The hat that, to his vestry wrangles, That venerable priest doth go in,— And then and there amid the stare Of all St. Olave's, takes the chair And quotes with phiz right orthodox The example of his reverend brothers, To prove that priests all fleece their flocks And he must fleece as well as others.

Blest Hat! (whoe'er thy lord may be) Thus low I take off mine to thee, The homage of a layman's castor, To the spruce delta of his pastor. Oh mayst thou be, as thou proceedest, Still smarter cockt, still brusht the brighter, Till, bowing all the way, thou leadest Thy sleek possessor to a mitre!

[1] So described by a Reverend Historian of the Church:—"A Delta hat like the horizontal section of a pyramid."—GRANT'S "History of the English Church."

[2] Archbishop Magee affectionately calls the Church Establishment of Ireland "the little Zion."



NEWS FOR COUNTRY COUSINS.

Dear Coz, as I know neither you nor Miss Draper, When Parliament's up, ever take in a paper, But trust for your news to such stray odds and ends As you chance to pick up from political friends- Being one of this well-informed class, I sit down To transmit you the last newest news that's in town.

As to Greece and Lord Cochrane, things couldn't look better— His Lordship (who promises now to fight faster) Has just taken Rhodes and despatched off a letter To Daniel O'Connell, to make him Grand Master; Engaging to change the old name, if he can, From the Knights of St. John to the Knights of St. Dan;— Or if Dan should prefer (as a still better whim) Being made the Colossus, 'tis all one to him.

From Russia the last accounts are that the Tsar— Most generous and kind as all sovereigns are, And whose first princely act (as you know, I suppose) Was to give away all his late brother's old clothes[1]— Is now busy collecting with brotherly care The late Emperor's nightcaps, and thinks, of bestowing One nightcap apiece (if he has them to spare) On all the distinguisht old ladies now going. (While I write, an arrival from Riga—the "Brothers"— Having nightcaps on board for Lord Eldon and others.)

Last advices from India—Sir Archy, 'tis thought, Was near catching a Tartar (the first ever caught In N. Lat. 2l.)—and his Highness Burmese, Being very hard prest to shell out the rupees, And not having rhino sufficient, they say, meant To pawn his august Golden Foot[2] for the payment.

(How lucky for monarchs, that thus when they choose Can establish a running account with the Jews!) The security being what Rothschild calls "goot," A loan will be shortly, of course, set on foot; The parties are Rothschild, A. Baring and Co. With three other great pawnbrokers: each takes a toe, And engages (lest Gold-foot should give us leg-bail, As he did once before) to pay down on the nail.

* * * * *

This is all for the present—what vile pens and paper! Yours truly, dear Cousin—best love to Miss Draper.

September, 1826.

[1] A distribution was made of the Emperor Alexander's military wardrobe by his successor.

[2] This potentate styles himself the Monarch of the Golden foot.



A VISION.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "CHRISTABEL."

"Up!" said the Spirit and ere I could pray One hasty orison, whirled me away To a Limbo, lying—I wist not where— Above or below, in earth or air; For it glimmered o'er with a doubtful light, One couldn't say whether 'twas day or night; And 'twas crost by many a mazy track, One didn't know how to get on or back; And I felt like a needle that's going astray (With its one eye out) thro' a bundle of hay; When the Spirit he grinned, and whispered me, "Thou'rt now in the Court of Chancery!"

Around me flitted unnumbered swarms Of shapeless, bodiless, tailless forms; (Like bottled-up babes that grace the room Of that worthy knight, Sir Everard Home)— All of them, things half-killed in rearing; Some were lame—some wanted hearing; Some had thro' half a century run, Tho' they hadn't a leg to stand upon. Others, more merry, as just beginning, Around on a point of law were spinning; Or balanced aloft, 'twixt Bill and Answer, Lead at each end, like a tight-rope dancer. Some were so cross that nothing could please 'em;- Some gulpt down affidavits to ease 'em— All were in motion, yet never a one, Let it move as it might, could ever move on, "These," said the Spirit, "you plainly see, "Are what they call suits in Chancery!"

I heard a loud screaming of old and young, Like a chorus by fifty Vellutis sung; Or an Irish Dump ("the words by Moore ") At an amateur concert screamed in score;— So harsh on my ear that wailing fell Of the wretches who in this Limbo dwell! It seemed like the dismal symphony Of the shapes' Aeneas in hell did see; Or those frogs whose legs a barbarous cook Cut off and left the frogs in the brook, To cry all night, till life's last dregs, "Give us our legs!—give us our legs!" Touched with the sad and sorrowful scene, I askt what all this yell might mean, When the Spirit replied, with a grin of glee, "'Tis the cry of the Suitors in Chancery!"

I lookt and I saw a wizard rise,[1] With a wig like a cloud before men's eyes. In his aged hand he held a wand, Wherewith he beckoned his embryo band, And they moved and moved as he waved it o'er, But they never get on one inch the more. And still they kept limping to and fro, Like Ariels round old Prospero— Saying, "Dear Master, let us go," But still old Prospero answered "No." And I heard the while that wizard elf Muttering, muttering spells to himself, While o'er as many old papers he turned, As Hume e'er moved for or Omar burned. He talkt of his virtue—"tho' some, less nice, (He owned with a sigh) preferred his Vice"— And he said, "I think"—"I doubt"—"I hope," Called God to witness, and damned the Pope; With many more sleights of tongue and hand I couldn't for the soul of me understand. Amazed and posed, I was just about To ask his name, when the screams without, The merciless clack of the imps within, And that conjuror's mutterings, made such a din, That, startled, I woke—leapt up in my bed— Found the Spirit, the imps, and the conjuror fled, And blest my stars, right pleased to see, That I wasn't as yet in Chancery.

[1] The Lord Chancellor Eldon.



THE PETITION OF THE ORANGEMEN OF IRELAND.

1826.

To the people of England, the humble Petition Of Ireland's disconsolate Orangemen, showing— That sad, very sad, is our present condition;— Our jobbing all gone and our noble selves going;—

That forming one seventh, within a few fractions, Of Ireland's seven millions of hot heads and hearts, We hold it the basest of all base transactions To keep us from murdering the other six parts;—

That as to laws made for the good of the many, We humbly suggest there is nothing less true; As all human laws (and our own, more than any) Are made by and for a particular few:—

That much it delights every true Orange brother To see you in England such ardor evince, In discussing which sect most tormented the other, And burned with most gusto some hundred years since;—

That we love to behold, while old England grows faint, Messrs. Southey and Butler nigh coming to blows, To decide whether Dunstan, that strong-bodied Saint, Ever truly and really pulled the De'il's nose;

Whether t'other Saint, Dominic, burnt the De'il's paw— Whether Edwy intrigued with Elgiva's odd mother— And many such points, from which Southey can draw Conclusions most apt for our hating each other.

That 'tis very well known this devout Irish nation Has now for some ages, gone happily on Believing in two kinds of Substantiation, One party in Trans and the other in Con;[1]

That we, your petitioning Cons, have in right Of the said monosyllable ravaged the lands And embezzled the goods and annoyed, day and night, Both the bodies and souls of the sticklers for Trans;—

That we trust to Peel, Eldon, and other such sages, For keeping us still in the same state of mind; Pretty much as the world used to be in those ages, When still smaller syllables maddened mankind;—

When the words ex and per[2] served as well to annoy One's neighbors and friends with, as con and trans now; And Christians, like Southey, who stickled for oi, Cut the throats of all Christians who stickled for ou.[3]

That relying on England whose kindness already So often has helpt us to play this game o'er, We have got our red coats and our carabines ready, And wait but the word to show sport as before.

That as to the expense—the few millions or so, Which for all such diversions John Bull has to pay— 'Tis at least a great comfort to John Bull to know That to Orangemen's pockets 'twill all find its way. For which your petitioners ever will pray, Etc., etc., etc., etc., etc.

[1] Consubstantiation—the true Reformed belief; at least, the belief of Luther, and, as Mosheim asserts, of Melancthon also.

[2] When John of Ragusa went to Constantinople (at the time this dispute between "ex" and "per" was going on), he found the Turks, we are told, "laughing at the Christians for being divided by two such insignificant particles."

[3] The Arian controversy.—Before that time, says Hooker, "in order to be a sound believing Christian, men were not curious what syllables or particles of speech they used."



COTTON AND CORN.

A DIALOGUE.

Said Cotton to Corn, t'other day, As they met and exchanged a salute— (Squire Corn in his carriage so gay, Poor Cotton half famished on foot):

"Great Squire, if it isn't uncivil "To hint at starvation before you, "Look down on a poor hungry devil, "And give him some bread, I implore you!"

Quoth Corn then in answer to Cotton, Perceiving he meant to make free— "Low fellow, you've surely forgotten "The distance between you and me!

"To expect that we Peers of high birth "Should waste our illustrious acres, "For no other purpose on earth "Than to fatten curst calico-makers!—

"That Bishops to bobbins should bend— "Should stoop from their Bench's sublimity, "Great dealers in lawn, to befriend "Such contemptible dealers in dimity!

"No—vile Manufacture! ne'er harbor "A hope to be fed at our boards;— "Base offspring of Arkwright the barber, "What claim canst thou have upon Lords?

"No—thanks to the taxes and debt, "And the triumph of paper o'er guineas, "Our race of Lord Jemmys, as yet, "May defy your whole rabble of Jennys!"

So saying—whip, crack, and away Went Corn in his chaise thro' the throng, So headlong, I heard them all say, "Squire Corn will be down before long."



THE CANONIZATION OF SAINT BUTTERWORTH.

"A Christian of the best edition."—RABELAIS.

Canonize him!—yea, verily, we'll canonize him, Tho' Cant is his hobby and meddling his bliss, Tho' sages may pity and wits may despise him, He'll ne'er make a bit the worse Saint for all this.

Descend, all ye Spirits, that ever yet spread The dominion of Humbug o'er land and o'er sea, Descend on our Butterworth's biblical head, Thrice-Great, Bibliopolist, Saint, and M. P.

Come, shade of Joanna, come down from thy sphere. And bring little Shiloh—if 'tisn't too far— Such a sight will to Butterworth's bosom be dear, His conceptions and thine being much on a par.

Nor blush, Saint Joanna, once more to behold A world thou hast honored by cheating so many; Thou'lt find still among us one Personage old, Who also by tricks and the Seals[1] makes a penny.

Thou, too, of the Shakers, divine Mother Lee![2] Thy smiles to beatified Butterworth deign; Two "lights of the Gentiles" are thou, Anne, and he, One hallowing Fleet Street, and t'other Toad Lane![3]

The heathen, we know, made their Gods out of wood, And Saints may be framed of as handy materials;— Old women and Butterworths make just as good As any the Pope ever bookt as Ethereals.

Stand forth, Man of Bibles!—not Mahomet's pigeon, When perched on the Koran, he dropt there, they say, Strong marks of his faith, ever shed o'er religion Such glory as Butterworth sheds every day.

Great Galen of souls, with what vigor he crams Down Erin's idolatrous throats, till they crack again, Bolus on bolus, good man!—and then damns Both their stomachs and souls, if they dare cast them back again.

How well might his shop—as a type representing The creed of himself and his sanctified clan— On its counter exhibit "the Art of Tormenting," Bound neatly, and lettered "Whole Duty of Man!"

Canonize him!—by Judas, we will canonize him; For Cant is his hobby and twaddling his bliss; And tho' wise men may pity and wits may despise him, He'll make but the better shop-saint for all this.

Call quickly together the whole tribe of Canters, Convoke all the serious Tag-rag of the nation; Bring Shakers and Snufflers and Jumpers and Ranters To witness their Butterworth's Canonization!

Yea, humbly I've ventured his merits to paint, Yea, feebly have tried all his gifts to portray, And they form a sum-total for making a Saint. That the Devil's own advocate could not gainsay.

Jump high, all ye Jumpers, ye Ranters all roar, While Butterworth's spirit, upraised from your eyes, Like a kite made of foolscap, in glory shall soar, With a long tail of rubbish behind, to the skies!

[1] A great part of the income of Joanna Southcott arose from the Seals of the Lord's protection which she sold to her followers.

[2] Mrs. Anne Lee, the "chosen vessel" of the Shakers, and "Mother of all the children of regeneration."

[3] Toad Lane, in Manchester, where Mother Lee was born. In her "Address to Young Believers," she says, that "it is a matter of no importance with them from whence the means of their deliverance come, whether from a stable in Bethlehem, or from Toad Lane, Manchester."



AN INCANTATION.

SUNG BY THE BUBBLE SPIRIT.

Air.—Come with me, and we will go Where the rocks of coral grow.

Come with me and we will blow Lots of bubbles as we go; Bubbles bright as ever Hope Drew from fancy—or from soap; Bright as e'er the South Sea sent From its frothy element! Come with me and we will blow Lots of bubbles as we go. Mix the lather, Johnny Wilks, Thou, who rhym'st so well to bilks;[1] Mix the lather—who can be Fitter for such tasks than thee, Great M. P. for Sudsbury!

Now the frothy charm is ripe, Puffing Peter,[2] bring thy pipe,— Thou whom ancient Coventry Once so dearly loved that she Knew not which to her was sweeter, Peeping Tom or Puffing Peter;— Puff the bubbles high in air, Puff thy best to keep them there.

Bravo, bravo, Peter More! Now the rainbow humbugs[3] soar. Glittering all with golden hues Such as haunt the dreams of Jews;— Some reflecting mines that lie Under Chili's glowing sky, Some, those virgin pearls that sleep Cloistered in the southern deep; Others, as if lent a ray From the streaming Milky Way, Glistening o'er with curds and whey From the cows of Alderney.

Now's the moment—who shall first Catch the bubbles ere they burst? Run, ye Squires, ye Viscounts, run, Brogden, Teynham, Palmerston;— John Wilks junior runs beside ye! Take the good the knaves provide ye! See, with upturned eyes and hands, Where the Shareman, Brogden, stands, Gaping for the froth to fall Down his gullet—lye and all. See!—

But, hark, my time is out— Now, like some great water-spout, Scattered by the cannon's thunder, Burst ye bubbles, all asunder!

[Here the stage darkens—a discordant crash is heard from the orchestra —the broken bubbles descend in a saponaceous but uncleanly mist over the heads of the Dramatis Personae, and the scene drops, leaving the bubble-hunters—all in the suds.]

[1] Strong indications of character may be sometimes traced in the rhymes to names. Marvell thought so when he wrote "Sir Edward Button, The foolish Knight who rhymes to mutton."

[2] The member, during a long period, for Coventry.

[3] An humble imitation of one of our modern poets, who, in a poem against War, after describing the splendid habiliments of the soldier, thus apostrophizes him—"thou rainbow ruffian!"



A DREAM OF TURTLE.

BY SIR W. CURTIS.

1826.

'Twas evening time, in the twilight sweet I sailed along, when—whom should I meet But a Turtle journeying o'er the sea, "On the service of his Majesty."[1] When spying him first thro' twilight dim, I didn't know what to make of him; But said to myself, as slow he plied His fins and rolled from side to side Conceitedly o'er the watery path— "'Tis my Lord of Stowell taking a bath, "And I hear him now, among the fishes, "Quoting Vatel and Burgersdicius!" But, no—'twas, indeed, a Turtle wide And plump as ever these eyes descried; A turtle juicy as ever yet Glued up the lips of a Baronet! And much did it grieve my soul to see That an animal of such dignity, Like an absentee abroad should roam, When he ought to stay and be ate at home.

But now "a change came o'er my dream," Like the magic lantern's shifting slider; I lookt and saw by the evening beam On the back of that Turtle sat a rider— A goodly man with an eye so merry, I knew 'twas our Foreign Secretary,[2] Who there at his ease did sit and smile, Like Waterton on his crocodile;[3] Cracking such jokes, at every motion, As made the Turtle squeak with glee And own they gave him a lively notion Of what his forced-meat balls would be. So, on the Sec. in his glory went. Over that briny element, Waving his hand as he took farewell With graceful air, and bidding me tell Inquiring friends that the Turtle and he Were gone on a foreign embassy— To soften the heart of a Diplomat, Who is known to dote upon verdant fat, And to let admiring Europe see, That calipash and calipee Are the English forms of Diplomacy.

[1] We are told that the passport of this grand diplomatic Turtle (sent by the Secretary for Foreign Affairs to a certain noble envoy) described him as "on his majesty's service."

[2] Mr. Canning.

[3] Wanderings in South America. "It was the first and last time [says Mr. Waterton] I was ever on a crocodile's back."



THE DONKEY AND HIS PANNIERS.

A FABLE.

—"fessus jam sudat asellus, "parce illi; vestrum delicium est asinus." VERGIL. Copa.

A donkey whose talent for burdens was wondrous, So much that you'd swear he rejoiced in a load, One day had to jog under panniers so ponderous, That—down the poor Donkey fell smack on the road!

His owners and drivers stood round in amaze What! Neddy, the patient, the prosperous Neddy, So easy to drive thro' the dirtiest ways For every description of job-work so ready!

One driver (whom Ned might have "hailed" as a "brother")[1] Had just been proclaiming his Donkey's renown For vigor, for spirit, for one thing or other— When, lo! mid his praises the Donkey came down! But how to upraise him?—one shouts, t'other whistles, While Jenky, the Conjuror, wisest of all, Declared that an "over-production of thistles[2]— (Here Ned gave a stare)—was the cause of his fall."