Another wise Solomon cries as he passes— "There, let him alone and the fit will soon cease; "The beast has been fighting with other jack-asses, "And this is his mode of 'transition to peace.'"

Some lookt at his hoofs, and with learned grimaces Pronounced that too long without shoes he had gone— "Let the blacksmith provide him a sound metal basis," (The wise-acres said), "and he's sure to jog on."

Meanwhile, the poor Neddy in torture and fear Lay under his panniers, scarce able to groan; And—what was still dolefuller—lending an ear To advisers whose ears were a match for his own.

At length a plain rustic whose wit went so far As to see others' folly, roared out, as he past— "Quick—off with the panniers, all dolts as ye are, "Or your prosperous Neddy will soon kick his last!"

October, 1826.

[1] Alluding to an early poem of Mr. Coleridge's, addressed to an Ass, and beginning, "I hail thee, brother!"

[2] A certain country gentleman having said in the House, "that we must return at last to the food of our ancestors," somebody asked Mr. T. "what food the gentleman meant?"—"Thistles, I suppose," answered Mr. T.



ODE TO THE SUBLIME PORTE.

1826.

Great Sultan, how wise are thy state compositions! And oh! above all I admire that Decree, In which thou command'st that all she politicians Shall forthwith be strangled and cast in the sea.

'Tis my fortune to know a lean Benthamite spinster— A maid who her faith in old Jeremy puts, Who talks with a lisp of "the last new Westminster," And hopes you're delighted with "Mill upon Gluts;"

Who tells you how clever one Mr. Funblank is, How charming his Articles 'gainst the Nobility;— And assures you that even a gentleman's rank is In Jeremy's school, of no sort of utility.

To see her, ye Gods, a new Number perusing— ART. 1.—"On the Needle's variations," by Pl—ce;[1] ART. 2.—By her Favorite Funblank[2]—"so amusing! "Dear man! he makes Poetry quite a Law case."

ART. 3.—"Upon Fallacies," Jeremy's own— (Chief Fallacy being his hope to find readers);- ART. 4.—"Upon Honesty," author unknown;— ART. 5.—(by the young Mr. Mill) "Hints to Breeders."

Oh, Sultan, oh, Sultan, tho' oft for the bag And the bowstring, like thee, I am tempted to call— Tho' drowning's too good for each blue-stocking hag, I would bag this she Benthamite first of them all!

And lest she should ever again lift her head From the watery bottom, her clack to renew— As a clog, as a sinker, far better than lead, I would hang around her neck her own darling Review.

[1] A celebrated political tailor.

[2] This pains-taking gentleman has been at the trouble of counting, with the assistance of Cocker, the number of metaphors in Moore's "Life of Sheridan," and has found them to amount, as nearly as possible, to 2235— and some fractions.



CORN AND CATHOLICS.

utrum horum dirius borun? Incerti Auctoris.

What! still those two infernal questions, That with our meals our slumbers mix— That spoil our tempers and digestions— Eternal Corn and Catholics!

Gods! were there ever two such bores? Nothing else talkt of night or morn— Nothing in doors or out of doors, But endless Catholics and Corn!

Never was such a brace of pests— While Ministers, still worse than either, Skilled but in feathering their nests, Plague us with both and settle neither.

So addled in my cranium meet Popery and Corn that oft I doubt, Whether, this year, 'twas bonded Wheat, Or bonded Papists, they let out.

Here, landlords, here polemics nail you, Armed with all rubbish they can rake up; Prices and Texts at once assail you— From Daniel these, and those from Jacob,

And when you sleep, with head still torn Between the two, their shapes you mix, Till sometimes Catholics seem Corn— Then Corn again seems Catholics.

Now Dantsic wheat before you floats— Now Jesuits from California— Now Ceres linkt with Titus Oats, Comes dancing thro' the "Porta Cornea."[1]

Oft too the Corn grows animate, And a whole crop of heads appears, Like Papists, bearding Church and State— Themselves, together by the ears!

In short these torments never cease, And oft I wish myself transferred off To some far, lonely land of peace Where Corn or Papists ne'er were heard of.

Yes, waft me, Parry, to the Pole; For—if my fate is to be chosen 'Twixt bores and icebergs—on my soul, I'd rather, of the two, be frozen!

[1] The Horn Gate, through which the ancients supposed all true dreams (such as those of the Popish Plot, etc.) to pass.



A CASE OF LIBEL.

"The greater the truth, the worse the libel."

A certain Sprite, who dwells below, ('Twere a libel perhaps to mention where,) Came up incog. some years ago To try for a change the London air.

So well he lookt and drest and talkt, And hid his tail and horns so handy, You'd hardly have known him as he walkt From C——e, or any other Dandy.

(His horns, it seems, are made to unscrew; So he has but to take them out of the socket, And—just as some fine husbands do— Conveniently clap them into his pocket.)

In short, he lookt extremely natty, And even contrived—to his own great wonder— By dint of sundry scents from Gattie, To keep the sulphurous hogo under.

And so my gentleman hoofed about, Unknown to all but a chosen few At White's and Crockford's, where no doubt He had many post-obits falling due.

Alike a gamester and a wit, At night he was seen with Crockford's crew, At morn with learned dames would sit— So past his time 'twixt black and blue.

Some wisht to make him an M. P., But, finding Wilks was also one, he Swore, in a rage, "he'd be damned, if he "Would ever sit in one house with Johnny."

At length as secrets travel fast, And devils, whether he or she, Are sure to be found out at last, The affair got wind most rapidly.

The Press, the impartial Press, that snubs Alike a fiend's or an angel's capers— Miss Paton's soon as Beelzebub's, Fired off a squib in the morning papers:

"We warn good men to keep aloof "From a grim old Dandy seen about "With a fire-proof wig and a cloven hoof "Thro' a neat-cut Hoby smoking out."

Now,—the Devil being gentleman, Who piques himself on well-bred dealings,— You may guess, when o'er these lines he ran, How much they hurt and shockt his feelings.

Away he posts to a Man of Law, And 'twould make you laugh could you have seen 'em, As paw shook hand, and hand shook paw, And 'twas "hail, good fellow, well met," between 'em.

Straight an indictment was preferred— And much the Devil enjoyed the jest, When, asking about the Bench, he heard That, of all the Judges, his own was Best.[1]

In vain Defendant proffered proof That Plaintiff's self was the Father of Evil— Brought Hoby forth to swear to the hoof And Stultz to speak to the tail of the Devil.

The Jury (saints, all snug and rich, And readers of virtuous Sunday papers) Found for the Plaintiff—on hearing which The Devil gave one of his loftiest capers.

For oh, 'twas nuts to the Father of Lies (As this wily fiend is named in the Bible) To find it settled by laws so wise, That the greater the truth, the worse the libel!

[1] A celebrated Judge, so named.



LITERARY ADVERTISEMENT.

Wanted—Authors of all-work to job for the season, No matter which party, so faithful to neither; Good hacks who, if posed for a rhyme or a reason. Can manage, like ******, to do without either.

If in jail, all the better for out-o'-door topics; Your jail is for travellers a charming retreat; They can take a day's rule for a trip to the Tropics, And sail round the world at their ease in the Fleet.

For a dramatist too the most useful of schools— He can study high life in the King's Bench community; Aristotle could scarce keep him more within rules, And of place he at least must adhere to the unity.

Any lady or gentleman, come to an age To have good "Reminiscences" (three-score or higher) Will meet with encouragement—so much, per page, And the spelling and grammar both found by the buyer.

No matter with what their remembrance is stockt, So they'll only remember the quantum desired;— Enough to fill handsomely Two Volumes, oct., Price twenty-four shillings, is all that's required.

They may treat us, like Kelly, with old jeu-d'esprits, Like Dibdin, may tell of each farcical frolic; Or kindly inform us, like Madame Genlis,[1] That gingerbread-cakes always give them the colic.

Wanted also a new stock of Pamphlets on Corn By "Farmers" and "Landholders"—(worthies whose lands Enclosed all in bow-pots their attics adorn, Or whose share of the soil maybe seen on their hands).

No-Popery Sermons, in ever so dull a vein, Sure of a market;—should they too who pen 'em Be renegade Papists, like Murtagh O'Sullivan,[2] Something extra allowed for the additional venom.

Funds, Physics, Corn, Poetry, Boxing, Romance, All excellent subjects for turning a penny;— To write upon all is an author's sole chance For attaining, at last, the least knowledge of any.

Nine times out of ten, if his title is good, The material within of small consequence is;— Let him only write fine, and, if not understood, Why—that's the concern of the reader, not his.

Nota Bene—an Essay, now printing, to show, That Horace (as clearly as words could express it) Was for taxing the Fund-holders, ages ago, When he wrote thus—"Quodcunque in Fund is, assess it."

[1] This lady also favors us, in her Memoirs, with the address of those apothecaries, who have, from time to time, given her pills that agreed with her; always desiring that the pills should be ordered "comme pour elle."

[2] A gentleman, who distinguished himself by his evidence before the Irish Committees.



THE IRISH SLAVE.[1]

1827.

I heard as I lay, a wailing sound, "He is dead—he is dead," the rumor flew; And I raised my chain and turned me round, And askt, thro' the dungeon-window, "Who?"

I saw my livid tormentors pass; Their grief 'twas bliss to hear and see! For never came joy to them alas! That didn't bring deadly bane to me.

Eager I lookt thro' the mist of night, And askt, "What foe of my race hath died? "Is it he—that Doubter of law and right, "Whom nothing but wrong could e'er decide—

"Who, long as he sees but wealth to win, "Hath never yet felt a qualm or doubt "What suitors for justice he'd keep in, "Or what suitors for freedom he'd shut out—

"Who, a clog for ever on Truth's advance, "Hangs round her (like the Old Man of the Sea "Round Sinbad's neck[2]), nor leaves a chance "Of shaking him off—is't he? is't he?"

Ghastly my grim tormentors smiled, And thrusting me back to my den of woe, With a laughter even more fierce and wild Than their funeral howling, answered "No."

But the cry still pierced my prison-gate, And again I askt, "What scourge is gone? "Is it he—that Chief, so coldly great, "Whom Fame unwillingly shines upon—

"Whose name is one of the ill-omened words "They link with hate on his native plains; "And why?—they lent him hearts and swords, "And he in return gave scoffs and chains!

"Is it he? is it he?" I loud inquired, When, hark!—there sounded a Royal knell; And I knew what spirit had just expired, And slave as I was my triumph fell.

He had pledged a hate unto me and mine, He had left to the future nor hope nor choice, But sealed that hate with a Name Divine, And he now was dead and—I couldn't rejoice!

He had fanned afresh the burning brands Of a bigotry waxing cold and dim; He had armed anew my torturers' hands, And them did I curse—but sighed for him.

For, his was the error of head not heart; And—oh! how beyond the ambushed foe, Who to enmity adds the traitor's part, And carries a smile with a curse below!

If ever a heart made bright amends For the fatal fault of an erring head— Go, learn his fame from the lips of friends, In the orphan's tear be his glory read.

A Prince without pride, a man without guile, To the last unchanging, warm, sincere, For Worth he had ever a hand and smile, And for Misery ever his purse and tear.

Touched to the heart by that solemn toll, I calmly sunk in my chains again; While, still as I said, "Heaven rest his soul!" My mates of the dungeon sighed "Amen!"

January, 1827.

[1] Written on the death of the Duke of York.

[2] "You fell, said they, into the hands of the Old Man of the Sea, and are the first who ever escaped strangling by his malicious tricks."—Story of Sinbad.



ODE TO FERDINAND.

1827.

Quit the sword, thou King of men, Grasp the needle once again; Making petticoats is far Safer sport than making war; Trimming is a better thing, Than the being trimmed, oh King! Grasp the needle bright with which Thou didst for the Virgin stitch Garment, such as ne'er before Monarch stitched or Virgin wore, Not for her, oh semster nimble! Do I now invoke thy thimble; Not for her thy wanted aid is, But for certain grave old ladies, Who now sit in England's cabinet, Waiting to be clothed in tabinet, Or whatever choice etoffe is Fit for Dowagers in office. First, thy care, oh King, devote To Dame Eldon's petticoat. Make it of that silk whose dye Shifts for ever to the eye, Just as if it hardly knew Whether to be pink or blue. Or—material fitter yet— If thou couldst a remnant get Of that stuff with which, of old, Sage Penelope, we're told, Still by doing and undoing, Kept her suitors always wooing— That's the stuff which I pronounce, is Fittest for Dame Eldon's flounces.

After this, we'll try thy hand, Mantua-making Ferdinand, For old Goody Westmoreland; One who loves, like Mother Cole, Church and State with all her soul; And has past her life in frolics Worthy of our Apostolics. Choose, in dressing this old flirt, Something that won't show the dirt, As, from habit, every minute Goody Westmoreland is in it.

This is all I now shall ask, Hie thee, monarch, to thy task; Finish Eldon's frills and borders, Then return for further orders. Oh what progress for our sake, Kings in millinery make! Ribands, garters, and such things, Are supplied by other Kings— Ferdinand his rank denotes By providing petticoats.



HAT VERSUS WIG.

1827.

"At the interment of the Duke of York, Lord Eldon, in order to guard against the effects of the damp, stood upon his hat during the whole of the ceremony."

—metus omnes et inexorabile fatum subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari.

'Twixt Eldon's Hat and Eldon's Wig There lately rose an altercation,— Each with its own importance big, Disputing which most serves the nation.

Quoth Wig, with consequential air, "Pooh! pooh! you surely can't design, "My worthy beaver, to compare "Your station in the state with mine.

"Who meets the learned legal crew? "Who fronts the lordly Senate's pride? "The Wig, the Wig, my friend—while you "Hang dangling on some peg outside.

"Oh! 'tis the Wig, that rules, like Love, "Senate and Court, with like eclat— "And wards below and lords above, "For Law is Wig and Wig is Law!

"Who tried the long, Long WELLESLEY suit, "Which tried one's patience, in return? "Not thou, oh Hat!—tho' couldst thou do't, "Of other brims[1] than thine thou'dst learn.

"'Twas mine our master's toil to share; "When, like 'Truepenny,' in the play,[2] "He, every minute, cried out 'Swear,' "And merrily to swear went they;—[3]

"When, loath poor WELLESLEY to condemn, he "With nice discrimination weighed, "Whether 'twas only 'Hell and Jemmy,' Or 'Hell and Tommy' that he played.

"No, no, my worthy beaver, no— "Tho' cheapened at the cheapest hatter's, "And smart enough as beavers go "Thou ne'er wert made for public matters."

Here Wig concluded his oration, Looking, as wigs do, wondrous wise; While thus, full cockt for declamation, The veteran Hat enraged replies:—

"Ha! dost thou then so soon forget "What thou, what England owes to me? "Ungrateful Wig!—when will a debt, "So deep, so vast, be owed thee?

"Think of that night, that fearful night, "When, thro' the steaming vault below, "Our master dared, in gout's despite, "To venture his podagric toe!

"Who was it then, thou boaster, say "When thou hadst to thy box sneaked off, "Beneath his feet protecting lay, "And saved him from a mortal cough?

"Think, if Catarrh had quenched that sun, "How blank this world had been to thee! "Without that head to shine upon, "Oh Wig, where would thy glory be?

"You, too, ye Britons,—had this hope "Of Church and State been ravisht from ye, "Oh think, how Canning and the Pope "Would then have played up 'Hell and Tommy'!

"At sea, there's but a plank, they say, "'Twixt seamen and annihilation; "A Hat, that awful moment, lay "'Twixt England and Emancipation!

"Oh!!!—"

At this "Oh!!!" The Times Reporter Was taken poorly, and retired; Which made him cut Hat's rhetoric shorter, Than justice to the case required.

On his return, he found these shocks Of eloquence all ended quite; And Wig lay snoring in his box, And Hat was—hung up for the night.

[1] "Brim—a naughty woman."—GROSE.

[2]"Ghost[beneath].—Swear! "Hamlet.—Ha, ha! say'st thou so! Art thou there, Truepenny? Come on."

[3] His Lordship's demand for fresh affidavits was incessant.



THE PERIWINKLES AND THE LOCUSTS.

A SALMAGUNDIAN HYMN.

"To Panurge was assigned the Laird-ship of Salmagundi, which was yearly worth 6,789,106,789 ryals besides the revenue of the Locusts and Periwinkles, amounting one year with another to the value of 2,485,768," etc.—RABELAIS.

"Hurra! hurra!" I heard them say, And they cheered and shouted all the way, As the Laird of Salmagundi went. To open in state his Parliament.

The Salmagundians once were rich, Or thought they were—no matter which— For, every year, the Revenue From their Periwinkles larger grew; And their rulers, skilled in all the trick And legerdemain of arithmetic, Knew how to place 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, and 9 and 10, Such various ways, behind, before, That they made a unit seem a score, And proved themselves most wealthy men! So, on they went, a prosperous crew, The people wise, the rulers clever— And God help those, like me and you, Who dared to doubt (as some now do) That the Periwinkle Revenue Would thus go flourishing on for ever.

"Hurra! hurra!" I heard them say, And they cheered and shouted all the way, As the Great Panurge in glory went To open his own dear Parliament.

But folks at length began to doubt What all this conjuring was about; For, every day, more deep in debt They saw their wealthy rulers get:— "Let's look (said they) the items thro' "And see if what we're told be true "Of our Periwinkle Revenue," But, lord! they found there wasn't a tittle Of truth in aught they heard before; For they gained by Periwinkles little And lost by Locusts ten times more! These Locusts are a lordly breed Some Salmagundians love to feed. Of all the beasts that ever were born, Your Locust most delights in corn; And tho' his body be but small, To fatten him takes the devil and all! "Oh fie! oh fie!" was now the cry, As they saw the gaudy show go by, As the Laird of Salmagundi went To open his Locust Parliament!



NEW CREATION OF PEERS.

BATCH THE FIRST.

"His 'prentice han' He tried on man, And then he made the lasses."

1827.

"And now," quoth the Minister, (eased of his panics, And ripe for each pastime the summer affords,) "Having had our full swing at destroying mechanics, "By way of set-off, let us make a few Lords.

"'Tis pleasant—while nothing but mercantile fractures, "Some simple, some compound, is dinned in our ears— "To think that, tho' robbed all coarse manufactures, "We still have our fine manufacture of Peers;—

"Those Gotielin productions which Kings take a pride "In engrossing the whole fabrication and trade of; "Choice tapestry things very grand on one side, "But showing, on t'other, what rags they are made of.

The plan being fixt, raw material was sought,— No matter how middling, if Tory the creed be; And first, to begin with, Squire W—-, 'twas thought, For a Lord was as raw a material as need be.

Next came with his penchant for painting and pelf The tasteful Sir Charles,[1] so renowned far and near For purchasing pictures and selling himself— And both (as the public well knows) very dear.

Beside him Sir John comes, with equal eclat, in;— Stand forth, chosen pair, while for titles we measure ye; Both connoisseur baronets, both fond of drawing, Sir John, after nature, Sir Charles, on the Treasury.

But, bless us!—behold a new candidate come— In his hand he upholds a prescription, new written: He poiseth a pill-box 'twixt finger and thumb, And he asketh a seat 'mong the Peers of Great Britain!

"Forbid it," cried Jenky, "ye Viscounts, ye Earls! "Oh Rank, how thy glories would fall disenchanted, "If coronets glistend with pills stead of pearls, "And the strawberry-leaves were by rhubarb supplanted!

"No—ask it not, ask it not, dear Doctor Holford— "If naught but a Peerage can gladden thy life, "And young Master Holford as yet is too small for't, "Sweet Doctor, we'll make a she Peer of thy wife.

"Next to bearing a coronet on our own brows "Is to bask in its light from the brows of another; "And grandeur o'er thee shall reflect from thy spouse, "As o'er Vesey Fitzgerald 'twill shine thro' his mother."[2]

Thus ended the First Batch—and Jenky, much tired (It being no joke to make Lords by the heap), Took a large dram of ether—the same that inspired His speech 'gainst the Papists—and prosed off to sleep.

[1] Created Lord Farnborough.

[2] Among the persons mentioned as likely to be raised to the Peerage are the mother of Mr. Vesey Fitzgerald, etc.



SPEECH ON THE UMBRELLA QUESTION.[1]

BY LORD ELDON.

1827.

"vos inumbrelles video."—Ex Juvenil. GEORGII CANNINGII.[2]

My Lords, I'm accused of a trick that God knows is The last into which at my age I could fall— Of leading this grave House of Peers by their noses, Wherever I choose, princes, bishops and all.

My Lords, on the question before us at present, No doubt I shall hear, "'Tis that cursed old fellow, "That bugbear of all that is liberal and pleasant, "Who won't let the Lords give the man his umbrella!"

God forbid that your Lordships should knuckle to me; I am ancient—but were I as old as King Priam, Not much, I confess, to your credit 'twould be, To mind such a twaddling old Trojan as I am.

I own, of our Protestant laws I am jealous, And long as God spares me will always maintain, That once having taken men's rights, or umbrellas, We ne'er should consent to restore them again.

What security have you, ye Bishops and Peers, If thus you give back Mr. Bell's parapluie, That he mayn't with its stick, come about all your ears, And then—where would your Protestant periwigs be?

No! heaven be my judge, were I dying to-day, Ere I dropt in the grave, like a medlar that's mellow, "For God's sake"—at that awful moment I'd say— "For God's sake, don't give Mr. Bell his umbrella."

["This address," says a ministerial journal, "delivered with amazing emphasis and earnestness, occasioned an extraordinary sensation in the House. Nothing since the memorable address of the Duke of York has produced so remarkable an impression."]

[1] A case which interested the public very much at this period. A gentleman, of the name, of Bell, having left his umbrella behind him in the House of Lords, the doorkeepers (standing, no doubt, on the privileges of that noble body) refused to restore it to him; and the above speech, which may be considered as a pendant to that of the Learned Earl on the Catholic Question, arose out of the transaction.

[2] From Mr. Canning's translation of Jekyl's—

"I say, my good fellows, As you've no umbrellas."



A PASTORAL BALLAD.

BY JOHN BULL.

Dublin, March 12, 1827.—Friday, after the arrival of the packet bringing the account of the defeat of the Catholic Question, in the House of Commons, orders were sent to the Pigeon-House to forward 5,000,000 rounds of musket-ball cartridge to the different garrisons round the country.—Freeman's Journal.

I have found out a gift for my Erin, A gift that will surely content her:— Sweet pledge of a love so endearing! Five millions of bullets I've sent her.

She askt me for Freedom and Right, But ill she her wants understood;— Ball cartridges, morning and night, Is a dose that will do her more good.

There is hardly a day of our lives But we read, in some amiable trials, How husbands make love to their wives Thro' the medium of hemp and of vials.

One thinks, with his mistress or mate A good halter is sure to agree— That love-knot which, early and late, I have tried, my dear Erin, on thee.

While another, whom Hymen has blest With a wife that is not over placid, Consigns the dear charmer to rest, With a dose of the best Prussic acid.

Thus, Erin! my love do I show— Thus quiet thee, mate of my bed! And, as poison and hemp are too slow, Do thy business with bullets instead.

Should thy faith in my medicine be shaken, Ask Roden, that mildest of saints; He'll tell thee, lead, inwardly taken, Alone can remove thy complaints;—

That, blest as thou art in thy lot, Nothing's wanted to make it more pleasant But being hanged, tortured and shot, Much oftener than thou art at present.

Even Wellington's self hath averred Thou art yet but half sabred and hung, And I loved him the more when I heard Such tenderness fall from his tongue.

So take the five millions of pills, Dear partner, I herewith inclose; 'Tis the cure that all quacks for thy ill, From Cromwell to Eldon, propose.

And you, ye brave bullets that go, How I wish that, before you set out, The Devil of the Freischuetz could know The good work you are going about.

For he'd charm ye, in spite of your lead. Into such supernatural wit. That you'd all of you know, as you sped, Where a bullet of sense ought to hit.



A LATE SCENE AT SWANAGE.[1]

regnis EX sul ademptis.—Verg. 1827.

To Swanage—that neat little town in whose bay Fair Thetis shows off in her best silver slippers— Lord Bags[2] took his annual trip t'other day, To taste the sea breezes and chat with the dippers.

There—learned as he is in conundrums and laws— Quoth he to his dame (whom he oft plays the wag on), "Why are chancery suitors like bathers?"—"Because Their suits are put off, till they haven't a rag on."

Thus on he went chatting—but, lo! while he chats, With a face full of wonder around him he looks; For he misses his parsons, his dear shovel hats, Who used to flock round him at Swanage like rooks.

"How is this, Lady Bags?—to this region aquatic "Last year they came swarming to make me their bow, "As thick as Burke's cloud o'er the vales of Carnatic, "Deans, Rectors, D.D.'s—where the devil are they now?"

"My dearest Lord Bags!" saith his dame, "can you doubt? "I am loath to remind you of things so unpleasant; "But don't you perceive, dear, the Church have found out "That you're one of the people called Ex's, at present?"

"Ah, true—you have hit it—I am, indeed, one "Of those ill-fated Ex's (his Lordship replies), "And with tears, I confess—God forgive me the pun!— "We X's have proved ourselves not to be Y's."

[1] A small bathing-place on the coast of Dorsetshire, long a favorite summer resort of the ex-nobleman in question and, till this season, much frequented also by gentlemen of the church.

[2] The Lord Chancellor Eldon.



WO! WO![1]

Wo, wo unto him who would check or disturb it— That beautiful Light which is now on its way; Which beaming, at first, o'er the bogs of Belturbet, Now brightens sweet Ballinafad with its ray!

Oh Farnham, Saint Farnham, how much do we owe thee! How formed to all tastes are thy various employs. The old, as a catcher of Catholics, know thee; The young, as an amateur scourger of boys.

Wo, wo to the man who such doings would smother!— On, Luther of Bavan! On, Saint of Kilgroggy! With whip in one hand and with Bible in t'other, Like Mungo's tormentor, both "preachee and floggee."

Come, Saints from all quarters, and marshal his way; Come, Lorton, who, scorning profane erudition, Popt Shakespeare, they say, in the river one day, Tho' 'twas only old Bowdler's Velluti edition.

Come, Roden, who doubtest—so mild are thy views— Whether Bibles or bullets are best for the nation; Who leav'st to poor Paddy no medium to choose 'Twixt good old Rebellion and new Reformation.

What more from her Saints can Hibernia require? St. Bridget of yore like a dutiful daughter Supplied her, 'tis said, with perpetual fire,[2] And Saints keep her now in eternal hot water.

Wo, wo to the man who would check their career, Or stop the Millennium that's sure to await us, When blest with an orthodox crop every year, We shall learn to raise Protestants fast as potatoes.

In kidnapping Papists, our rulers, we know, Had been trying their talent for many a day; Till Farnham, when all had been tried, came to show, Like the German flea-catcher, "anoder goot way."

And nothing's more simple than Farnham's receipt;— "Catch your Catholic, first—soak him well in poteen, "Add salary sauce,[3] and the thing is complete. "You may serve up your Protestant smoking and clean."

"Wo, wo to the wag, who would laugh at such cookery!" Thus, from his perch, did I hear a black crow[4] Caw angrily out, while the rest of the rookery Opened their bills and re-echoed "Wo! wo!"

[1] Suggested by a speech of the Bishop of Chester on the subject of the New Reformation in Ireland, in which his Lordship denounced "Wo! Wo! Wo!" pretty abundantly on all those who dared to interfere with its progress.

[2] The inextenguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare.

[3] "We understand that several applications have lately been made to the Protestant clergymen of this town by fellows, inquiring 'What are they giving a head for converts?'"—Wexford Post.

[4] Of the rook species—Corvus frugilegus, i.e. a great consumer of corn.



TOUT POUR LA TRIPE.

"If in China or among the natives of India, we claimed civil advantages which were connected with religious usages, little as we might value those forms in our hearts, we should think common decency required us to abstain from treating them with offensive contumely; and, though unable to consider them sacred, we would not sneer at the name of Fot, or laugh at the imputed divinity of Visthnou."—Courier, Tuesday. Jan. 16.

1827.

Come take my advice, never trouble your cranium, When "civil advantages" are to be gained, What god or what goddess may help to obtain you 'em, Hindoo or Chinese, so they're only obtained.

In this world (let me hint in your organ auricular) All the good things to good hypocrites fall; And he who in swallowing creeds is particular, Soon will have nothing to swallow at all.

Oh place me where Fo (or, as some call him, Fot) Is the god from whom "civil advantages" flow, And you'll find, if there's anything snug to be got, I shall soon be on excellent terms with old Fo.

Or were I where Vishnu, that four-handed god, Is the quadruple giver of pensions and places, I own I should feel it unchristian and odd Not to find myself also in Vishnu's good graces.

For among all the gods that humanely attend To our wants in this planet, the gods to my wishes Are those that, like Vishnu and others, descend In the form so attractive, of loaves and of fishes![1]

So take my advice—for if even the devil Should tempt men again as an idol to try him, 'Twere best for us Tories even then to be civil, As nobody doubts we should get something by him.

[1] Vishnu was (as Sir W. Jones calls him) "a pisciform god,"—his first Avatar being in the shape of a fish.



ENIGMA.

monstrum nulla virtute redemptum.

Come, riddle-me-ree, come, riddle-me-ree, And tell me what my name may be. I am nearly one hundred and thirty years old, And therefore no chicken, as you may suppose;— Tho' a dwarf in my youth (as my nurses have told), I have, every year since, been out-growing my clothes: Till at last such a corpulent giant I stand, That if folks were to furnish me now with a suit, It would take every morsel of scrip in the land But to measure my bulk from the head to the foot. Hence they who maintain me, grown sick of my stature, To cover me nothing but rags will supply; And the doctors declare that in due course of nature About the year 30 in rags I shall die. Meanwhile, I stalk hungry and bloated around, An object of interest most painful to all; In the warehouse, the cottage, the place I'm found, Holding citizen, peasant, and king in nay thrall. Then riddle-me-ree, oh riddle-me-ree, Come tell me what my name may be.

When the lord of the counting-house bends o'er his book, Bright pictures of profit delighting to draw, O'er his shoulders with large cipher eyeballs I look, And down drops the pen from his paralyzed paw! When the Premier lies dreaming of dear Waterloo, And expects thro' another to caper and prank it, You'd laugh did you see, when I bellow out "Boo!" How he hides his brave Waterloo head in the blanket. When mighty Belshazzar brims high in the hall His cup, full of gout, to the Gaul's overthrow, Lo, "Eight Hundred Millions" I write on the wall, And the cup falls to earth and—the gout to his toe! But the joy of my heart is when largely I cram My maw with the fruits of the Squirearchy's acres, And knowing who made me the thing that I am, Like the monster of Frankenstein, worry my makers. Then riddle-me-ree, come, riddle-me-ree, And tell, if thou know'st, who I may be.



DOG-DAY REFLECTIONS.

BY A DANDY KEPT IN TOWN.

"vox clamantis in deserto."

1827.

Said Malthus one day to a clown Lying stretched on the beach in the sun,— "What's the number of souls in this town?"— "The number! Lord bless you, there's none.

"We have nothing but dabs in this place, "Of them a great plenty there are;— But the soles, please your reverence and grace, "Are all t'other side of the bar."

And so 'tis in London just now, Not a soul to be seen up or down;— Of dabs? a great glut, I allow, But your soles, every one, out of town.

East or west nothing wondrous or new, No courtship or scandal worth knowing; Mrs. B—-, and a Mermaid[1] or two, Are the only loose fish that are going.

Ah, where is that dear house of Peers That some weeks ago kept us merry? Where, Eldon, art thou with thy tears? And thou with thy sense, Londonderry?

Wise Marquis, how much the Lord Mayor, In the dog-days, with thee must be puzzled!— It being his task to take care That such animals shan't go unmuzzled.

Thou too whose political toils Are so worthy a captain of horse— Whose amendments[2] (like honest Sir Boyle's) Are "amendments, that make matters worse;"[3]

Great Chieftain, who takest such pains To prove—what is granted, nem. con.— With how moderate a portion of brains Some heroes contrive to get on.

And thou too my Redesdale, ah! where Is the peer with a star at his button, Whose quarters could ever compare With Redesdale's five quarters of mutton?[4]

Why, why have ye taken your flight, Ye diverting and dignified crew? How ill do three farces a night, At the Haymarket, pay us for you!

For what is Bombastes to thee, My Ellenbro', when thou look'st big Or where's the burletta can be Like Lauderdale's wit and his wig?

I doubt if even Griffinhoof[5] could (Tho' Griffin's a comical lad) Invent any joke half so good As that precious one, "This is too bad!"

Then come again, come again Spring! Oh haste thee, with Fun in thy train; And—of all things the funniest—bring These exalted Grimaldis again!

[1] One of the shows of London.

[2] More particularly his Grace's celebrated amendment to the Corn Bill: for which, and the circumstances connected with it, see Annual Register for A. D. 1827.

[3] From a speech of Sir Boyle Roche's, in the Irish House of Commons.

[4] The learning his Lordship displayed on the subject of the butcher's "fifth quarter" of mutton will not speedily be forgotten.

[5] The nom de guerre under which Colman has written some of his best farces.



THE "LIVING DOG" AND "THE DEAD LION."

1828.

Next week will be published (as "Lives" are the rage) The whole Reminiscences, wondrous and strange, Of a small puppy-dog that lived once in the cage Of the late noble Lion at Exeter 'Change.

Tho' the dog is a dog of the kind they call "sad," 'Tis a puppy that much to good breeding pretends; And few dogs have such opportunities had Of knowing how Lions behave—among friends;

How that animal eats, how he snores, how he drinks, Is all noted down by this Boswell so small; And 'tis plain from each sentence, the puppy-dog thinks That the Lion was no such great things after all.

Tho' he roared pretty well—this the puppy allows— It was all, he says, borrowed—all second-hand roar; And he vastly prefers his own little bow-wows To the loftiest war-note the Lion could pour.

'Tis indeed as good fun as a Cynic could ask, To see how this cockney-bred setter of rabbits Takes gravely the Lord of the Forest to task, And judges of lions by puppy-dog habits.

Nay, fed as he was (and this makes it a dark case) With sops every day from the Lion's own pan, He lifts up his leg at the noble beast's carcass. And does all a dog so diminutive can.

However, the book's a good book, being rich in Examples and warnings to lions high-bred, How they suffer small mongrelly curs in their kitchen, Who'll feed on them living and foul them when dead.

T. PIDCOCK

Exeter 'Change,



ODE TO DON MIGUEL.

Et tu, Brute!

1828.[1]

What! Miguel, not patriotic! oh, fy! After so much good teaching 'tis quite a take-in, Sir; First schooled as you were under Metternich's eye, And then (as young misses say) "finisht" at Windsor![2]

I ne'er in my life knew a case that was harder;— Such feasts as you had when you made us a call! Three courses each day from his Majesty's larder,— And now to turn absolute Don after all!!

Some authors, like Bayes, to the style and the matter Of each thing they write suit the way that they dine, Roast sirloin for Epic, broiled devils for Satire, And hotchpotch and trifle for rhymes such as mine.

That Rulers should feed the same way, I've no doubt;— Great Despots on bouilli served up a la Russe,[3] Your small German Princes on frogs and sour crout, And your Viceroy of Hanover always on goose.

Some Dons too have fancied (tho' this may be fable) A dish rather dear, if in cooking they blunder it;— Not content with the common hot meat on a table, They're partial (eh, Mig?) to a dish of cold under it![4]

No wonder a Don of such appetites found Even Windsor's collations plebeianly plain; Where the dishes most high that my Lady sends round Are here Maintenon cutlets and soup a la Reine.

Alas! that a youth with such charming beginnings, Should sink all at once to so sad a conclusion, And what is still worse, throw the losings and winnings Of worthies on 'Change into so much confusion!

The Bulls, in hysterics—the Bears just as bad— The few men who have, and the many who've not tick, All shockt to find out that that promising lad, Prince Metternich's pupil, is—not patriotic!

[1] At the commencement of this year, the designs of Don Miguel and his partisans against the constitution established by his brother had begun more openly to declare themselves.

[2] Don Miguel had paid a visit to the English court at the close of the year 1827.

[3] Dressed with a pint of the strongest spirits—a favorite dish of the Great Frederick of Prussia, and which he persevered in eating even on his death-bed, much to the horror of his physician Zimmerman.

[4] This quiet case of murder, with all its particulars—the hiding the body under the dinner-table, etc.—is, no doubt, well known to the reader.



THOUGHTS ON THE PRESENT GOVERNMENT OF IRELAND.

1828.

Oft have I seen, in gay, equestrian pride, Some well-rouged youth round Astley's Circus ride Two stately steeds—standing, with graceful straddle, Like him of Rhodes, with foot on either saddle, While to soft tunes—some jigs and some andantes— He steers around his light-paced Rosinantes.

So rides along, with canter smooth and pleasant, That horseman bold, Lord Anglesea, at present;— Papist and Protestant the coursers twain, That lend their necks to his impartial rein, And round the ring—each honored, as they go, With equal pressure from his gracious toe—

To the old medley tune, half "Patrick's Day" And half "Boyne Water," take their cantering way, While Peel, the showman in the middle, cracks His long-lasht whip to cheer the doubtful hacks. Ah, ticklish trial of equestrian art! How blest, if neither steed would bolt or start;— If Protestant's old restive tricks were gone, And Papist's winkers could be still kept on! But no, false hopes—not even the great Ducrow 'Twixt two such steeds could 'scape an overthrow: If solar hacks played Phaeton a trick, What hope, alas, from hackneys lunatic?

If once my Lord his graceful balance loses, Or fails to keep each foot where each horse chooses; If Peel but gives one extra touch of whip To Papist's tail or Protestant's ear-tip— That instant ends their glorious horsmanship! Off bolt the severed steeds, for mischief free. And down between them plumps Lord Anglesea!



THE LIMBO OF LOST REPUTATIONS.

A DREAM.

"Cio che si perde qui, la si raguna." ARIOSTO.

"—-a valley, where he sees Things that on earth were lost." MILTON.

1828.

Knowest thou not him[1] the poet sings, Who flew to the moon's serene domain, And saw that valley where all the things, That vanish on earth are found again— The hopes of youth, the resolves of age, The vow of the lover, the dream of the sage, The golden visions of mining cits, The promises great men strew about them; And, packt in compass small, the wits Of monarchs who rule as well without them!— Like him, but diving with wing profound, I have been to a Limbo underground, Where characters lost on earth, (and cried, In vain, like Harris's, far and wide,) In heaps like yesterday's orts, are thrown And there, so worthless and flyblown That even the imps would not purloin them, Lie till their worthy owners join them.

Curious it was to see this mass Of lost and torn-up reputations;— Some of them female wares, alas! Mislaid at innocent assignations; Some, that had sighed their last amen From the canting lips of saints that would be; And some once owned by "the best of men," Who had proved-no better than they should be. 'Mong others, a poet's fame I spied, Once shining fair, now soakt and black— "No wonder" (an imp at my elbow cried), "For I pickt it out of a butt of sack!"

Just then a yell was heard o'er head, Like a chimney-sweeper's lofty summons; And lo! a devil right downward sped, Bringing within his claws so red Two statesmen's characters, found, he said, Last night, on the floor of the House of Commons; The which, with black official grin, He now to the Chief Imp handed in;— Both these articles much the worse For their journey down, as you may suppose; But one so devilish rank—"Odd's curse!". Said the Lord Chief Imp, and held his nose. "Ho, ho!" quoth he, "I know full well "From whom these two stray matters fell;"— Then, casting away, with loathful shrug, The uncleaner waif (as he would a drug The Invisible's own dark hand had mixt), His gaze on the other[2] firm he fixt, And trying, tho' mischief laught in his eye, To be moral because of the young imps by, "What a pity!" he cried—"so fresh its gloss, "So long preserved—'tis a public loss! "This comes of a man, the careless blockhead, "Keeping his character in his pocket; "And there—without considering whether "There's room for that and his gains together— "Cramming and cramming and cramming away, "Till—out slips character some fine day!

"However"—and here he viewed it round— "This article still may pass for sound. "Some flaws, soon patched, some stains are all "The harm it has had in its luckless fall. "Here, Puck!" and he called to one of his train— "The owner may have this back again. "Tho' damaged for ever, if used with skill, "It may serve perhaps to trade on still; "Tho' the gem can never as once be set, "It will do for a Tory Cabinet."

[1] Astolpho.

[2] Huskisson.



HOW TO WRITE BY PROXY.

qui facit per alium facit per se.

'Mong our neighbors, the French, in the good olden time When Nobility flourisht, great Barons and Dukes Often set up for authors in prose and in rhyme, But ne'er took the trouble to write their own books.

Poor devils were found to do this for their betters;— And one day a Bishop, addressing a Blue, Said, "Ma'am, have you read my new Pastoral Letters?" To which the Blue answered—"No, Bishop, have you?"

The same is now done by our privileged class; And to show you how simple the process it needs, If a great Major-General[1] wishes to pass For an author of History, thus he proceeds:—

First, scribbling his own stock of notions as well As he can, with a goose-quill that claims him as kin, He settles his neckcloth—takes snuff—rings the bell, And yawningly orders a Subaltern in.

The Subaltern comes—sees his General seated, In all the self-glory of authorship swelling;— "There look," saith his Lordship, "my work is completed,— "It wants nothing now but the grammar and spelling."

Well used to a breach, the brave Subaltern dreads Awkward breaches of syntax a hundred times more; And tho' often condemned to see breaking of heads, He had ne'er seen such breaking of Priscian's before.

However, the job's sure to pay—that's enough— So, to it he sets with his tinkering hammer, Convinced that there never was job half so tough As the mending a great Major-General's grammar.

But lo! a fresh puzzlement starts up to view— New toil for the Sub.—for the Lord new expense: 'Tis discovered that mending his grammar won't do, As the Subaltern also must find him in sense!

At last—even this is achieved by his aid; Friend Subaltern pockets the cash and—the story; Drums beat—the new Grand March of Intellect's played— And off struts my Lord, the Historian, in glory!

[1] Or Lieutenant-General, as it may happen to be.



IMITATION OF THE INFERNO OF DANTE.

"Cosi quel fiato gli spiriti mali Di qua, di la, di giu, di su gli mena."

Inferno, canto 5.

I turned my steps and lo! a shadowy throng Of ghosts came fluttering towards me—blown along, Like cockchafers in high autumnal storms, By many a fitful gust that thro' their forms Whistled, as on they came, with wheezy puff, And puft as—tho' they'd never puff enough.

"Whence and what are ye?" pitying I inquired Of these poor ghosts, who, tattered, tost, and tired With such eternal puffing, scarce could stand On their lean legs while answering my demand. "We once were authors"—thus the Sprite, who led This tag-rag regiment of spectres, said— "Authors of every sex, male, female, neuter, "Who, early smit with love of praise and—pewter,[1] "On C—lb—n's shelves first saw the light of day, "In —-'s puffs exhaled our lives away— "Like summer windmills, doomed to dusty peace, "When the brisk gales that lent them motion, cease. "Ah! little knew we then what ills await "Much-lauded scribblers in their after-state; "Bepuft on earth—how loudly Str—t can tell— "And, dire reward, now doubly puft in hell!"

Touched with compassion for this ghastly crew, Whose ribs even now the hollow wind sung thro' In mournful prose,—such prose as Rosa's[2] ghost Still, at the accustomed hour of eggs and toast, Sighs thro' the columns of the Morning Post,— Pensive I turned to weep, when he who stood Foremost of all that flatulential brood, Singling a she-ghost from the party, said, "Allow me to present Miss X. Y. Z.,[3] "One of our lettered nymphs—excuse the pun— "Who gained a name on earth by—having none; "And whose initials would immortal be, "Had she but learned those plain ones, A. B. C.

"Yon smirking ghost, like mummy dry and neat, "Wrapt in his own dead rhymes—fit winding-sheet— "Still marvels much that not a soul should care "One single pin to know who wrote 'May Fair;'— "While this young gentleman," (here forth he drew A dandy spectre, puft quite thro' and thro', As tho' his ribs were an AEolian lyre For the whole Row's soft tradewinds to inspire,) "This modest genius breathed one wish alone, "To have his volume read, himself unknown; "But different far the course his glory took, "All knew the author, and—none read the book.

"Behold, in yonder ancient figure of fun, "Who rides the blast, Sir Jonah Barrington;— "In tricks to raise the wind his life was spent, "And now the wind returns the compliment. "This lady here, the Earl of —-'s sister, "Is a dead novelist; and this is Mister— "Beg pardon—Honorable Mister Lister, "A gentleman who some weeks since came over "In a smart puff (wind S. S. E.) to Dover. "Yonder behind us limps young Vivian Grey, "Whose life, poor youth, was long since blown away— "Like a torn paper-kite on which the wind "No further purchase for a puff can find."

"And thou, thyself"—here, anxious, I exclaimed— "Tell us, good ghost, how thou, thyself, art named." "Me, Sir!" he blushing cried—"Ah! there's the rub— "Know, then—a waiter once at Brooks's Club, "A waiter still I might have long remained, "And long the club-room's jokes and glasses drained; "But ah! in luckless hour, this last December, "I wrote a book,[4] and Colburn dubbed me 'Member'— "'Member of Brooks's!'—oh Promethean puff, "To what wilt thou exalt even kitchen-stuff! "With crumbs of gossip, caught from dining wits, "And half-heard jokes, bequeathed, like half-chewed bits, "To be, each night, the waiter's perquisites;— "With such ingredients served up oft before, "But with fresh fudge and fiction garnisht o'er, "I managed for some weeks to dose the town, "Till fresh reserves of nonsense ran me down; "And ready still even waiters' souls to damn, "The Devil but rang his bell, and—here I am;— "Yes—'Coming up, Sir,' once my favorite cry, "Exchanged for 'Coming down, Sir,' here am I!"

Scarce had the Spectre's lips these words let drop, When, lo! a breeze—such as from —-'s shop Blows in the vernal hour when puffs prevail, And speeds the sheets and swells the lagging sale— Took the poor waiter rudely in the poop, And whirling him and all his grisly group Of literary ghosts—Miss X. Y. Z.— The nameless author, better known than read— Sir Jo—the Honorable Mr. Lister, And last, not least, Lord Nobody's twin-sister— Blew them, ye gods, with all their prose and rhymes And sins about them, far into those climes "Where Peter pitched his waistcoat"[5] in old times, Leaving me much in doubt as on I prest, With my great master, thro' this realm unblest, Whether Old Nick or Colburn puffs the best.

[1] The classical term for money.

[2] Rosa Matilda, who was for many years the writer of the political articles in the journal alluded to, and whose spirit still seems to preside—"regnat Rosa"—over its pages.

[3] Not the charming L. E. L., and still less, Mrs. F. H., whose poetry is among the most beautiful of the present day.

[4] "History of the Clubs of London," announced as by "a Member of Brooks's."

[5]A Dantesque allusion to the old saying "Nine miles beyond Hell, where Peter pitched his waistcoat."



LAMENT FOR THE LOSS OF LORD BATHURST'S TAIL.[1]

All in again—unlookt for bliss! Yet, ah! one adjunct still we miss;— One tender tie, attached so long To the same head, thro' right and wrong. Why, Bathurst, why didst thou cut off That memorable tail of thine? Why—as if one was not enough— Thy pig-tie with thy place resign, And thus at once both cut and run? Alas! my Lord, 'twas not well done, 'Twas not, indeed,—tho' sad at heart, From office and its sweets to part, Yet hopes of coming in again, Sweet Tory hopes! beguiled our pain; But thus to miss that tail of thine, Thro' long, long years our rallying sign— As if the State and all its powers By tenancy in tail were ours— To see it thus by scissors fall, This was "the unkindest cut of all!" It seemed as tho' the ascendant day Of Toryism had past away, And proving Samson's story true, She lost her vigor with her queue.

Parties are much like fish, 'tis said— The tail directs them, not the head; Then how could any party fail, That steered its course by Bathurst's tail? Not Murat's plume thro' Wagram's fight E'er shed such guiding glories from it, As erst in all true Tories sight, Blazed from our old Colonial comet! If you, my Lord, a Bashaw were, (As Wellington will be anon) Thou mightst have had a tail to spare; But no! alas! thou hadst but one, And that—like Troy, or Babylon, A tale of other times—is gone! Yet—weep ye not, ye Tories true— Fate has not yet of all bereft us; Though thus deprived of Bathurst's queue, We've Ellenborough's curls still left us:— Sweet curls, from which young Love, so vicious, His shots, as from nine-pounders, issues; Grand, glorious curls, which in debate Surcharged with all a nation's fate, His Lordship shakes, as Homer's God did,[2] And oft in thundering talk comes near him; Except that there the speaker nodded And here 'tis only those who hear him. Long, long, ye ringlets, on the soil Of that fat cranium may ye flourish, With plenty of Macassar oil Thro' many a year your growth to nourish! And ah! should Time too soon unsheath His barbarous shears such locks to sever, Still dear to Tories even in death, Their last loved relics we'll bequeath, A hair-loom to our sons for ever.

[1] The noble Lord, as is well known, cut off this much-respected appendage on his retirement from office some months since.

[2] "Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod."—Pope's Homer.



THE CHERRIES.

A PARABLE.[1]

1838.

See those cherries, how they cover Yonder sunny garden wall;— Had they not that network over, Thieving birds would eat them all.

So to guard our posts and pensions, Ancient sages wove a net, Thro' whose holes of small dimensions Only certain knaves can get.

Shall we then this network widen; Shall we stretch these sacred holes, Thro' which even already slide in Lots of small dissenting souls?

"God forbid!" old Testy crieth; "God forbid!" so echo I; Every ravenous bird that flieth Then would at our cherries fly.

Ope but half an inch or so, And, behold! what bevies break in;— Here some curst old Popish crow Pops his long and lickerish beak in;

Here sly Arians flock unnumbered, And Socinians, slim and spare, Who with small belief encumbered Slip in easy anywhere;—

Methodists, of birds the aptest, Where there's pecking going on; And that water-fowl, the Baptist— All would share our fruits anon;

Every bird of every city, That for years with ceaseless din, Hath reverst the starling's ditty, Singing out "I can't get in."

"God forbid!" old Testy snivels; "God forbid!" I echo too; Rather may ten thousand devils Seize the whole voracious crew!

If less costly fruits won't suit 'em, Hips and haws and such like berries, Curse the cormorants! stone 'em, shoot 'em, Anything—to save our cherries.

[1] Written during the late discussion on the Test and Corporation Acts.



STANZAS WRITTEN IN ANTICIPATION OF DEFEAT.[1]

1828.

Go seek for some abler defenders of wrong, If we must run the gantlet thro' blood and expense; Or, Goths as ye are, in your multitude strong, Be content with success and pretend not to sense.

If the words of the wise and the generous are vain, If Truth by the bowstring must yield up her breath, Let Mutes do the office—and spare her the pain Of an Inglis or Tyndal to talk her to death.

Chain, persecute, plunder—do all that you will— But save us, at least, the old womanly lore Of a Foster, who, dully prophetic of ill, Is at once the two instruments, AUGUR[2] and BORE.

Bring legions of Squires—if they'll only be mute— And array their thick heads against reason and right, Like the Roman of old, of historic repute,[3] Who with droves of dumb animals carried the fight;

Pour out from each corner and hole of the Court Your Bedchamber lordlings, your salaried slaves, Who, ripe for all job-work, no matter what sort, Have their consciences tackt to their patents and staves.

Catch all the small fry who, as Juvenal sings, Are the Treasury's creatures, wherever they swim; With all the base, time-serving toadies of Kings, Who, if Punch were the monarch, would worship even him;

And while on the one side each name of renown That illumines and blesses our age is combined; While the Foxes, the Pitts, and the Cannings look down, And drop o'er the cause their rich mantles of Mind;

Let bold Paddy Holmes show his troops on the other, And, counting of noses the quantum desired, Let Paddy but say, like the Gracchi's famed mother, "Come forward, my jewels"—'tis all that's required.

And thus let your farce be enacted hereafter— Thus honestly persecute, outlaw and chain; But spare even your victims the torture of laughter, And never, oh never, try reasoning again!

[1] During the discussion of the Catholic question in the House of Commons last session.

[2] This rhyme is more for the ear than the eye, as the carpenter's tool is spelt auger.

[3] Fabius, who sent droves of bullock against the enemy.



ODE TO THE WOODS AND FORESTS.

BY ONE OF THE BOARD.

1828.

Let other bards to groves repair, Where linnets strain their tuneful throats; Mine be the Woods and Forests where The Treasury pours its sweeter notes.

No whispering winds have charms for me, Nor zephyr's balmy sighs I ask; To raise the wind for Royalty Be all our Sylvan zephyr's task!

And 'stead of crystal brooks and floods, And all such vulgar irrigation, Let Gallic rhino thro' our Woods Divert its "course of liquidation."

Ah, surely, Vergil knew full well What Woods and Forests ought to be, When sly, he introduced in hell His guinea-plant, his bullion-tree;[1]—

Nor see I why, some future day, When short of cash, we should not send Our Herries down—he knows the way— To see if Woods in hell will lend.

Long may ye flourish, sylvan haunts, Beneath whose "branches of expense" Our gracious King gets all he wants,— Except a little taste and sense.

Long, in your golden shade reclined. Like him of fair Armida's bowers, May Wellington some wood-nymph find, To cheer his dozenth lustrum's hours;

To rest from toil the Great Untaught, And soothe the pangs his warlike brain Must suffer, when, unused to thought, It tries to think and—tries in vain.

Oh long may Woods and Forests be Preserved in all their teeming graces, To shelter Tory bards like me Who take delight in Sylvan places!

[1] Called by Vergil, botanically, "species aurifrondentis."



STANZAS FROM THE BANKS OF THE SHANNON.[1]

1828.

"Take back the virgin page." MOORE'S Irish Melodies.

No longer dear Vesey, feel hurt and uneasy At hearing it said by the Treasury brother, That thou art a sheet of blank paper, my Vesey, And he, the dear, innocent placeman, another.[2]

For lo! what a service we Irish have done thee;— Thou now art a sheet of blank paper no more; By St. Patrick, we've scrawled such a lesson upon thee As never was scrawled upon foolscap before.

Come—on with your spectacles, noble Lord Duke, (Or O'Connell has green ones he haply would lend you,) Read Vesey all o'er (as you can't read a book) And improve by the lesson we bog-trotters send you;

A lesson, in large Roman characters traced, Whose awful impressions from you and your kin Of blank-sheeted statesmen will ne'er be effaced— Unless, 'stead of paper, you're mere asses' skin.

Shall I help you to construe it? ay, by the Gods, Could I risk a translation, you should have a rare one; But pen against sabre is desperate odds, And you, my Lord Duke (as you hinted once), wear one.

Again and again I say, read Vesey o'er;— You will find him worth all the old scrolls of papyrus That Egypt e'er filled with nonsensical lore, Or the learned Champollion e'er wrote of, to tire us.

All blank as he was, we've returned him on hand, Scribbled o'er with a warning to Princes and Dukes, Whose plain, simple drift if they won't understand, Tho' carest at St. James's, they're fit for St. Luke's.

Talk of leaves of the Sibyls!—more meaning conveyed is In one single leaf such as now we have spelled on, Than e'er hath been uttered by all the old ladies That ever yet spoke, from the Sibyls to Eldon.

[1] These verses were suggested by the result of the Clare election, in the year 1828, when the Right Honorable W. Vesey Fitzgerald was rejected, and Mr. O'Connell returned.

[2] Some expressions to this purport, in a published letter of one of these gentlemen, had then produced a good deal of amusement.



THE ANNUAL PILL.

Supposed to be sung by OLD PROSY, the Jew, in the character of Major CARTWRIGHT.

Vill nobodies try my nice Annual Pill, Dat's to purify every ting nashty avay? Pless ma heart, pless ma heart, let ma say vat I vill, Not a Chrishtian or Shentleman minds vat I say. 'Tis so pretty a bolus!—just down let it go, And, at vonce, such a radical shange you vill see, Dat I'd not be surprished, like de horse in de show, If your heads all vere found, vere your tailsh ought to be! Vill nobodies try my nice Annual Pill, etc.

'Twill cure all Electors and purge away clear Dat mighty bad itching dey've got in deir hands— 'Twill cure too all Statesmen of dulness, ma tear, Tho' the case vas as desperate as poor Mister VAN'S. Dere is noting at all vat dis Pill vill not reach— Give the Sinecure Ghentleman van little grain, Pless ma heart, it vill act, like de salt on de leech, And he'll throw de pounds, shillings, and pence, up again! Vill nobodies try my nice Annual Pill, etc.

'Twould be tedious, ma tear, all its peauties to paint— "But, among oder tings fundamentally wrong, It vill cure de Proad Pottom[1]—a common complaint Among M.P.'s and weavers—from sitting too long. Should symptoms of speeching preak out on a dunce (Vat is often de case), it vill stop de disease, And pring avay all de long speeches at vonce, Dat else vould, like tape-worms, come by degrees!

Vill nobodies try my nice Annual Pill, Dat's to purify every ting nashty avay? Pless ma heart, pless ma heart, let me say vat I vill, Not a Chrishtian or Shentleman minds vat I say!

[1] Meaning, I presume, Coalition Administrations.



"IF" AND "PERHAPS."[1]

Oh tidings of freedom! oh accents of hope! Waft, waft them, ye zephyrs, to Erin's blue sea, And refresh with their sounds every son of the Pope, From Dingle-a-cooch to far Donaghadee.

"If mutely the slave will endure and obey, "Nor clanking his fetters nor breathing his pains, "His masters perhaps at some far distant day "May think (tender tyrants!) of loosening his chains."

Wise "if" and "perhaps!"—precious salve for our wounds, If he who would rule thus o'er manacled mutes, Could check the free spring-tide of Mind that resounds, Even now at his feet, like the sea at Canute's.

But, no, 'tis in vain—the grand impulse is given— Man knows his high Charter, and knowing will claim; And if ruin must follow where fetters are riven, Be theirs who have forged them the guilt and the shame.

"If the slave will be silent!"—vain Soldier, beware— There is a dead silence the wronged may assume, When the feeling, sent back from the lips in despair, But clings round the heart with a deadlier gloom;—

When the blush that long burned on the suppliant's cheek, Gives place to the avenger's pale, resolute hue; And the tongue that once threatened, disdaining to speak, Consigns to the arm the high office—to do.

If men in that silence should think of the hour When proudly their fathers in panoply stood, Presenting alike a bold front-work of power To the despot on land and the foe on the flood:—

That hour when a Voice had come forth from the west, To the slave bringing hopes, to the tyrant alarms; And a lesson long lookt for was taught the opprest, That kings are as dust before freemen in arms!

If, awfuller still, the mute slave should recall That dream of his boyhood, when Freedom's sweet day At length seemed to break thro' a long night of thrall, And Union and Hope went abroad in its ray;—

If Fancy should tell him, that Dayspring of Good, Tho' swiftly its light died away from his chain, Tho' darkly it set in a nation's best blood, Now wants but invoking to shine out again;

If—if, I say—breathings like these should come o'er The chords of remembrance, and thrill as they come, Then,—perhaps—ay, perhaps—but I dare not say more; Thou hast willed that thy slaves should be mute—I am dumb.

[1] Written after hearing a celebrated speech in the House of Lords, June 10, 1828, when the motion in favor of Catholic Emancipation, brought forward by the Marquis of Lansdowne, was rejected by the House of Lords.



WRITE ON, WRITE ON.

A BALLAD.

Air.—"Sleep on, sleep on, my Kathleen dear. salvete, fratres Asini. ST. FRANCIS.

Write on, write on, ye Barons dear, Ye Dukes, write hard and fast; The good we've sought for many a year Your quills will bring at last. One letter more, Newcastle, pen, To match Lord Kenyon's two, And more than Ireland's host of men, One brace of Peers will do. Write on, write on, etc.

Sure never since the precious use Of pen and ink began, Did letters writ by fools produce Such signal good to man. While intellect, 'mong high and low, Is marching on, they say, Give me the Dukes and Lords who go Like crabs, the other way. Write on, write on, etc.

Even now I feel the coming light— Even now, could Folly lure My Lord Mountcashel too to write, Emancipation's sure. By geese (we read in history), Old Rome was saved from ill; And now to quills of geese we see Old Rome indebted still. Write on, write on, etc.

Write, write, ye Peers, nor stoop to style, Nor beat for sense about— Things little worth a Noble's while You're better far without. Oh ne'er, since asses spoke of yore, Such miracles were done; For, write but four such letters more, And Freedom's cause is won!



SONG OF THE DEPARTING SPIRIT OF TITHE.

"The parting Genius is with sighing sent." MILTON.

It is o'er, it is o'er, my reign is o'er; I hear a Voice, from shore to shore, From Dunfanaghy to Baltimore, And it saith, in sad, parsonic tone, "Great Tithe and Small are dead and gone!"

Even now I behold your vanishing wings, Ye Tenths of all conceivable things, Which Adam first, as Doctors deem, Saw, in a sort of night-mare dream,[1] After the feast of fruit abhorred— First indigestion on record!— Ye decimate ducks, ye chosen chicks, Ye pigs which, tho' ye be Catholics, Or of Calvin's most select depraved, In the Church must have your bacon saved;— Ye fields, where Labor counts his sheaves, And, whatsoever himself believes, Must bow to the Establisht Church belief, That the tenth is always a Protestant sheaf;— Ye calves of which the man of Heaven Takes Irish tithe, one calf in seven;[2] Ye tenths of rape, hemp, barley, flax, Eggs, timber, milk, fish and bees' wax; All things in short since earth's creation, Doomed, by the Church's dispensation, To suffer eternal decimation— Leaving the whole lay-world, since then, Reduced to nine parts out of ten; Or—as we calculate thefts and arsons— Just ten per cent. the worse for Parsons!

Alas! and is all this wise device For the saving of souls thus gone in a trice?— The whole put down, in the simplest way, By the souls resolving not to pay! And even the Papist, thankless race Who have had so much the easiest case— To pay for our sermons doomed, 'tis true, But not condemned to hear them, too— (Our holy business being, 'tis known, With the ears of their barley, not their own,) Even they object to let us pillage By right divine their tenth of tillage, And, horror of horrors, even decline To find us in sacramental wine![3]

It is o'er, it is o'er, my reign is o'er, Ah! never shall rosy Rector more, Like the shepherds of Israel, idly eat, And make of his flock "a prey and meat."[4] No more shall be his the pastoral sport Of suing his flock in the Bishop's Court, Thro' various steps, Citation, Libel— Scriptures all, but not the Bible; Working the Law's whole apparatus, To get at a few predoomed potatoes, And summoning all the powers of wig, To settle the fraction of a pig!— Till, parson and all committed deep In the case of "Shepherds versus Sheep," The Law usurps the Gospel's place, And on Sundays meeting face to face, While Plaintiff fills the preacher's station, Defendants form the congregation.

So lives he, Mammon's priest, not Heaven's, For tenths thus all at sixes and sevens, Seeking what parsons love no less Than tragic poets—a good distress. Instead of studying St. Augustin, Gregory Nyss., or old St. Justin (Books fit only to hoard dust in), His reverence stints his evening readings To learned Reports of Tithe Proceedings, Sipping the while that port so ruddy, Which forms his only ancient study;— Port so old, you'd swear its tartar Was of the age of Justin Martyr, And, had he sipt of such, no doubt His martyrdom would have been—to gout.

Is all then lost?—alas, too true— Ye Tenths beloved, adieu, adieu! My reign is o'er, my reign is o'er— Like old Thumb's ghost, "I can no more."

[1] A reverend prebendary of Hereford, in an Essay on the Revenues of the Church of England, has assigned the origin of Tithes to "some unrecorded revelation made to Adam."

[2] "The tenth calf is due to the parson of common right; and if there are seven he shall have one."—REES'S Cyclopaedia, art. "Tithes."

[3] Among the specimens laid before Parliament of the sort of Church rates levied upon Catholics in Ireland, was a charge of two pipes of port for sacramental wine.

[4] Ezekiel, xxxiv., 10.—"Neither shall the shepherds feed themselves any more; for I will deliver my flock from their mouth, that they may not be meat for them."



THE EUTHANASIA OF VAN.

"We are told that the bigots are growing old and fast wearing out. If it be so why not let us die in peace?" —LORD BEXLEY'S Letter to the Freeholders of Kent.

Stop, Intellect, in mercy stop, Ye curst improvements, cease; And let poor Nick Vansittart drop Into his grave in peace.

Hide, Knowledge, hide thy rising sun, Young Freedom, veil thy head; Let nothing good be thought or done, Till Nick Vansittart's dead!

Take pity on a dotard's fears, Who much doth light detest; And let his last few drivelling years Be dark as were the rest.

You too, ye fleeting one-pound notes, Speed not so fast away— Ye rags on which old Nicky gloats, A few months longer stay.

Together soon, or much I err, You both from life may go— The notes unto the scavenger, And Nick—to Nick below.

Ye Liberals, whate'er your plan, Be all reforms suspended; In compliment to dear old Van, Let nothing bad be mended.

Ye Papists, whom oppression wrings, Your cry politely cease, And fret your hearts to fiddle-strings That Van may die in peace.

So shall he win a fame sublime By few old rag-men gained; Since all shall own, in Nicky's time, Nor sense nor justice reigned.

So shall his name thro' ages past, And dolts ungotten yet, Date from "the days of Nicholas," With fond and sad regret;—

And sighing say, "Alas, had he "Been spared from Pluto's bowers, "The blessed reign of Bigotry "And Rags might still be ours!"



TO THE REVEREND ——.

ONE OF THE SIXTEEN REQUISITIONISTS OF NOTTINGHAM.

1828.

What, you, too, my ******, in hashes so knowing, Of sauces and soups Aristarchus profest! Are you, too, my savory Brunswicker, going To make an old fool of yourself with the rest?

Far better to stick to your kitchen receipts; And—if you want something to tease—for variety, Go study how Ude, in his "Cookery," treats Live eels when he fits them for polisht society.

Just snuggling them in, 'twixt the bars of the fire, He leaves them to wriggle and writhe on the coals,[1] In a manner that Horner himself would admire, And wish, 'stead of eels, they were Catholic souls.

Ude tells us the fish little suffering feels; While Papists of late have more sensitive grown; So take my advice, try your hand at live eels, And for once let the other poor devils alone.

I have even a still better receipt for your cook— How to make a goose die of confirmed hepatitis;[2] And if you'll, for once, fellow-feelings o'erlook, A well-tortured goose a most capital sight is.

First, catch him, alive—make a good steady fire— Set your victim before it, both legs being tied, (As if left to himself he might wish to retire,) And place a large bowl of rich cream by his side.

There roasting by inches, dry, fevered, and faint, Having drunk all the cream you so civilly laid, off, He dies of as charming a liver complaint As ever sleek person could wish a pie made of.

Besides, only think, my dear one of Sixteen, What an emblem this bird, for the epicure's use meant. Presents of the mode in which Ireland has been Made a tid-bit for yours and your brethren's amusement:

Tied down to the stake, while her limbs, as they quiver, A slow fire of tyranny wastes by degrees— No wonder disease should have swelled up her liver, No wonder you, Gourmands, should love her disease.

[1] The only way, Monsieur Ude assures us, to get rid of the oil so objectionable in this fish.

[2] A liver complaint. The process by which the livers of geese are enlarged for the famous Pates de foie d'oie.



IRISH ANTIQUITIES.

According to some learned opinions The Irish once were Carthaginians; But trusting to more late descriptions I'd rather say they were Egyptians. My reason's this:—the Priests of Isis, When forth they marched in long array, Employed, 'mong other grave devices, A Sacred Ass to lead the way; And still the antiquarian traces 'Mong Irish Lords this Pagan plan, For still in all religious cases They put Lord Roden in the van.



A CURIOUS FACT.

The present Lord Kenyon (the Peer who writes letters, For which the waste-paper folks much are his debtors) Hath one little oddity well worth reciting, Which puzzleth observers even more than his writing. Whenever Lord Kenyon doth chance to behold A cold Apple-pie—mind, the pie must be cold— His Lordship looks solemn (few people know why), And he makes a low bow to the said apple-pie. This idolatrous act in so "vital" a Peer, Is by most serious Protestants thought rather queer— Pie-worship, they hold, coming under the head (Vide Crustium, chap, iv.) of the Worship of Bread. Some think 'tis a tribute, as author he owes For the service that pie-crust hath done to his prose;— The only good things in his pages, they swear, Being those that the pastry-cook sometimes put there. Others say, 'tis a homage, thro' piecrust conveyed, To our Glorious Deliverer's much-honored shade; As that Protestant Hero (or Saint, if you please) Was as fond of cold pie as he was of green pease,[1] And 'tis solely in loyal remembrance of that, My Lord Kenyon to apple-pie takes off his hat. While others account for this kind salutation;"— By what Tony Lumpkin calls "concatenation;" A certain good-will that, from sympathy's ties, 'Twixt old Apple-women and Orange-men lies.

But 'tis needless to add, these are all vague surmises, For thus, we're assured, the whole matter arises: Lord Kenyon's respected old father (like many Respected old fathers) was fond of a penny; And loved so to save,[2] that—there's not the least question— His death was brought on by a bad indigestion, From cold apple-pie-crust his Lordship would stuff in At breakfast to save the expense of hot muffin. Hence it is, and hence only, that cold apple-pies Are beheld by his Heir with such reverent eyes— Just as honest King Stephen his beaver might doff To the fishes that carried his kind uncle off— And while filial piety urges so many on, 'Tis pure apple-pie-ety moves my Lord Kenyon.

[1] See the anecdote, which the Duchess of Marlborough relates in her Memoirs, of this polite hero appropriating to himself one day, at dinner, a whole dish of green peas—the first of the season—while the poor Princess Anne, who was then in a longing condition, sat by vainly entreating with her eyes for a share.

[2] The same prudent propensity characterizes his descendant, who (as is well known) would not even go to the expense of a diphthong on his father's monument, but had the inscription spelled, economically, thus:—"mors janua vita"



NEW-FASHIONED ECHOES.

Sir,—

Most of your readers are no doubt acquainted with the anecdote told of a certain not over-wise judge who, when in the act of delivering a charge in some country court-house, was interrupted by the braying of an ass at the door. "What noise is that?" asked the angry judge. "Only an extraordinary echo there is in court, my Lord," answered one of the counsel.

As there are a number of such "extraordinary echoes" abroad just now, you will not, perhaps, be unwilling, Mr. Editor, to receive the following few lines suggested by them.

Yours, etc. S.

1828

huc coeamus,[1] ait; nullique libentius unquam responsura sono, coeamus, retulit echo. OVID.

There are echoes, we know, of all sorts, From the echo that "dies in the dale," To the "airy-tongued babbler" that sports Up the tide of the torrent her "tale."

There are echoes that bore us, like Blues, With the latest smart mot they have heard; There are echoes extremely like shrews Letting nobody have the last word.

In the bogs of old Paddy-land, too. Certain "talented" echoes[2] there dwell, Who on being askt, "How do you do?" Politely reply, "Pretty well,"

But why should I talk any more Of such old-fashioned echoes as these, When Britain has new ones in store, That transcend them by many degrees?

For of all repercussions of sound Concerning which bards make a pother, There's none like that happy rebound When one blockhead echoes an other;—

When Kenyon commences the bray, And the Borough-Duke follows his track; And loudly from Dublin's sweet bay Rathdowne brays, with interest, back!—

And while, of most echoes the sound On our ear by reflection doth fall, These Brunswickers[3] pass the bray round, Without any reflection at all.

Oh Scott, were I gifted like you, Who can name all the echoes there are From Benvoirlich to bold Benvenue, From Benledi to wild Uamvar;

I might track thro' each hard Irish name The rebounds of this asinine strain, Till from Neddy to Neddy, it came To the chief Neddy, Kenyon, again;

Might tell how it roared in Rathdowne, How from Dawson it died off genteelly— How hollow it hung from the crown Of the fat-pated Marquis of Ely;

How on hearing my Lord of Glandine, Thistle-eaters the stoutest gave way, Outdone in their own special line By the forty-ass power of his bray!

But, no—for so humble a bard 'Tis a subject too trying to touch on; Such noblemen's names are too hard, And their noddles too soft to dwell much on.

Oh Echo, sweet nymph of the hill, Of the dell and the deep-sounding shelves; If in spite of Narcissus you still Take to fools who are charmed with themselves,

Who knows but, some morning retiring, To walk by the Trent's wooded side, You may meet with Newcastle, admiring His own lengthened ears in the tide!

Or, on into Cambria straying, Find Kenyon, that double tongued elf, In his love of ass-cendency, braying A Brunswick duet with himself!

[1] "Let us from Clubs."

[2] Commonly called "Paddy Blake's Echoes".

[3] Anti-Catholic associations, under the title of Brunswick Clubs, were at this time becoming numerous both in England and Ireland.



INCANTATION.

FROM THE NEW TRAGEDY OF "THE BRUNSWICKERS."

SCENE.—Penenden Plain. In the middle, a caldron boiling. Thunder.— Enter three Brunswickers.

1st Bruns.—Thrice hath scribbling Kenyon scrawled,

2d Bruns.—Once hath fool Newcastle bawled,

3d Bruns.—Bexley snores:—'tis time, 'tis time,

1st Bruns.—Round about the caldron go; In the poisonous nonsense throw. Bigot spite that long hath grown Like a toad within a stone, Sweltering in the heart of Scott, Boil we in the Brunswick pot.

All.—Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble, Eldon, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.

2d Bruns.—Slaver from Newcastle's quill In the noisome mess distil, Brimming high our Brunswick broth Both with venom and with froth. Mix the brains (tho' apt to hash ill, Being scant) of Lord Mountcashel, With that malty stuff which Chandos Drivels as no other man does. Catch (i. e. if catch you can) One idea, spick and span, From my Lord of Salisbury,— One idea, tho' it be Smaller than the "happy flea" Which his sire in sonnet terse Wedded to immortal verse.[1] Tho' to rob the son is sin, Put his one idea in; And, to keep it company, Let that conjuror Winchelsea Drop but half another there, If he hath so much to spare. Dreams of murders and of arsons, Hatched in heads of Irish parsons, Bring from every hole and corner, Where ferocious priests like Horner Purely for religious good Cry aloud for Papist's blood, Blood for Wells, and such old women, At their ease to wade and swim in.

All.—Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble, Bexley, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.

3d Bruns.—Now the charm begin to brew; Sisters, sisters, add thereto Scraps of Lethbridge's old speeches, Mixt with leather from his breeches, Rinsings of old Bexley's brains, Thickened (if you'll take the pains) With that pulp which rags create, In their middle nympha state, Ere, like insects frail and sunny, Forth they wing abroad as money. There—the Hell-broth we've enchanted— Now but one thing more is wanted. Squeeze o'er all that Orange juice, Castlereagh keeps corkt for use, Which, to work the better spell, is Colored deep with blood of ——, Blood, of powers far more various, Even than that of Januarius, Since so great a charm hangs o'er it, England's parsons bow before it, All.—Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble, Bexley, talk, and Kenyon, scribble. 2d Bruns.—Cool it now with ——'s blood, So the charm is firm and good. [exeunt.

[1] Alluding to a well-known lyric composition of the late Marquis, which, with a slight alteration, might be addressed either to a flea or a fly.



HOW TO MAKE A GOOD POLITICIAN.

Whene'er you're in doubt, said a Sage I once knew, 'Twixt two lines of conduct which course to pursue, Ask a woman's advice, and, whate'er she advise, Do the very reverse and you're sure to be wise.

Of the same use as guides the Brunswicker throng; In their thoughts, words and deeds, so instinctively wrong, That whatever they counsel, act, talk or indite, Take the opposite course and you're sure to be right.

So golden this rule, that, had nature denied you The use of that finger-post, Reason, to guide you— Were you even more doltish than any given man is, More soft than Newcastle, more twaddling than Van is. I'd stake my repute, on the following conditions, To make you the soundest of sound politicians.

Place yourself near the skirts of some high-flying Tory— Some Brunswicker parson, of port-drinking glory,— Watch well how he dines, during any great Question— What makes him feel gayly, what spoils his digestion— And always feel sure that his joy o'er a stew Portends a clear case of dyspepsia to you. Read him backwards, like Hebrew—whatever he wishes Or praises, note down as absurd or pernicious. Like the folks of a weather-house, shifting about, When he's out be an In-when he's in be an Out. Keep him always reversed in your thoughts, night and day, Like an Irish barometer turned the wrong way:— If he's up you may swear that foul weather is nigh; If he's down you may look for a bit of blue sky. Never mind what debaters or journalists say, Only ask what he thinks and then think t'other way. Does he hate the Small-note Bill? then firmly rely The Small-note Bill's a blessing, tho' you don't know why. Is Brougham his aversion? then Harry's your man. Does he quake at O'Connell? take doubly to Dan. Is he all for the Turks? then at once take the whole Russian Empire (Tsar, Cossacks and all) to your soul. In short, whatsoever he talks, thinks or is, Be your thoughts, words and essence the contrast of his. Nay, as Siamese ladies—at least the polite ones,— All paint their teeth black, 'cause the devil has white ones- If even by the chances of time or of tide Your Tory for once should have sense on his side, Even then stand aloof—for be sure that Old Nick When a Tory talks sensibly, means you some trick.

Such my recipe is—and, in one single verse, I shall now, in conclusion, its substance rehearse, Be all that a Brunswicker is not nor could be, And then—you'll be all that an honest man should be.



EPISTLE OF CONDOLENCE.

FROM A SLAVE-LORD, TO A COTTON-LORD.

Alas! my dear friend, what a state of affairs! How unjustly we both are despoiled of our rights! Not a pound of black flesh shall I leave to my heirs, Nor must you any more work to death little whites.

Both forced to submit to that general controller Of King, Lords and cotton mills, Public Opinion, No more shall you beat with a big billy-roller. Nor I with the cart-whip assert my dominion.

Whereas, were we suffered to do as we please With our Blacks and our Whites, as of yore we were let, We might range them alternate, like harpsichord keys, And between us thump out a good piebald duet.

But this fun is all over;—farewell to the zest Which Slavery now lends to each teacup we sip; Which makes still the cruellest coffee the best, And that sugar the sweetest which smacks of the whip.

Farewell too the Factory's white pickaninnies— Small, living machines which if flogged to their tasks Mix so well with their namesakes, the "Billies" and "Jennies," That which have got souls in 'em nobody asks;—

Little Maids of the Mill, who themselves but ill-fed, Are obliged, 'mong their other benevolent cares, To "keep feeding the scribblers,"[1]—and better, 'tis said, Than old Blackwood or Fraser have ever fed theirs.

All this is now o'er and so dismal my loss is, So hard 'tis to part from the smack of the throng, That I mean (from pure love for the old whipping process), To take to whipt syllabub all my life long.

[1] One of the operations in cotton mills usually performed by children.



THE GHOST OF MILTIADES.

ah quoties dubies Scriptis exarsit amator. OVID.

The Ghost of Miltiades came at night, And he stood by the bed of the Benthamite, And he said, in a voice that thrilled the frame, "If ever the sound of Marathon's name Hath fired thy blood or flusht thy brow, "Lover of Liberty, rouse thee now!"

The Benthamite yawning left his bed— Away to the Stock Exchange he sped, And he found the Scrip of Greece so high, That it fired his blood, it flusht his eye, And oh! 'twas a sight for the Ghost to see, For never was Greek more Greek than he! And still as the premium higher went, His ecstasy rose—so much per cent. (As we see in a glass that tells the weather The heat and the silver rise together,) And Liberty sung from the patriot's lip, While a voice from his pocket whispered "Scrip!" The Ghost of Miltiades came again;— He smiled, as the pale moon smiles thro' rain, For his soul was glad at that patriot strain; (And poor, dear ghost—how little he knew The jobs and the tricks of the Philhellene crew!) "Blessings and thanks!" was all he said, Then melting away like a night-dream fled!

The Benthamite hears—amazed that ghosts Could be such fools—and away he posts, A patriot still? Ah no, ah no— Goddess of Freedom, thy Scrip is low, And warm and fond as thy lovers are, Thou triest their passion, when under par, The Benthamite's ardor fast decays, By turns he weeps and swears and prays. And wishes the devil had Crescent and Cross, Ere he had been forced to sell at a loss. They quote him the Stock of various nations, But, spite of his classic associations, Lord! how he loathes the Greek quotations!

"Who'll buy my Scrip? Who'll buy my Scrip?" Is now the theme of the patriot's lip, As he runs to tell how hard his lot is To Messrs. Orlando and Luriottis, And says, "Oh Greece, for Liberty's sake, "Do buy my Scrip, and I vow to break "Those dark, unholy bonds of thine— "If you'll only consent to buy up mine!" The Ghost of Miltiades came once more;— His brow like the night was lowering o'er, And he said, with a look that flasht dismay, "Of Liberty's foes the worst are they, "Who turn to a trade her cause divine, "And gamble for gold on Freedom's shrine!" Thus saying, the Ghost, as he took his flight, Gave a Parthian kick to the Benthamite, Which sent him, whimpering, off to Jerry— And vanisht away to the Stygian ferry!



ALARMING INTELLIGENCE!

REVOLUTION IN THE DICTIONARY—ONE GALT AT THE HEAD OF IT.

God preserve us!—there's nothing now safe from assault;— Thrones toppling around, churches brought to the hammer; And accounts have just reached us that one Mr. Galt Has declared open war against English and Grammar!

He had long been suspected of some such design, And, the better his wicked intents to arrive at, Had lately 'mong Colburn's troops of the line (The penny-a-line men) enlisted as private.

There schooled, with a rabble of words at command, Scotch, English and slang in promiscuous alliance. He at length against Syntax has taken his stand, And sets all the Nine Parts of Speech at defiance.