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The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore by Thomas Moore et al

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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.



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.


--_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 _un_pack 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.



_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.




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.


_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.



_To the tune of "There was a little man, and he wooed a little


_arcades ambo et cantare pares_


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!


_suosque tibi commendat, Troja Penates hos cape fatorum comites_.


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.



_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_.


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.



_persico odi, puer, adparatus;
displicent nexae philyra coronae;_
mitte sectari, _Rosa_ quo locorum
sera moretur.


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!

* * * * *




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.



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


_effare causam nominis,
utrumne mores hoc tui
nomen dedere, an nomen hoc
secuta morum regula_. AUSONIUS.


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!




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?


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 _bill_ing 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.


_"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.


_"quem das finem, rex magne, laborum?"_


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 _heir_looms, 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.


"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.



"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."


_"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 _New_port)[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

[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."


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.


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]


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.




"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."


"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.




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.



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

_July, 1826_

[1] _Con fuoco_--a music-book direction.

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




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


_doctoribus loetamur tribus_.


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.


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.


--_altum aedificat caput_."


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

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


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.



"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.



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."



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."


"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,

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