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

Part 27 out of 33

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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.



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.




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_."



"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.


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

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.


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.



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!


"The parting Genius is with sighing sent."

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."


"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!"




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_.


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.


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_"



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.


_huc coeamus,[1] ait; nullique libentius unquam responsura sono,
coeamus, retulit echo_.

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.



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.

[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.


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.



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.


_ah quoties dubies Scriptis exarsit amator_.

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!



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.

Next advices, no doubt, further facts will afford:
In the mean time the danger most imminent grows,
He has taken the Life of one eminent Lord,
And whom he'll _next_ murder the Lord only knows.

_Wednesday evening_.
Since our last, matters, luckily, look more serene;
Tho' the rebel, 'tis stated, to aid his defection,
Has seized a great Powder--no, Puff Magazine,
And the explosions are dreadful in every direction.

What his meaning exactly is, nobody knows,
As he talks (in a strain of intense botheration)
Of lyrical "ichor,"[1] "gelatinous" prose,[2]
And a mixture called amber immortalization.[3]

_Now_, he raves of a bard he once happened to meet,
Seated high "among rattlings" and churning a sonnet;[4]
_Now_, talks of a mystery, wrapt in a sheet,
With a halo (by way of a nightcap) upon it![5]

We shudder in tracing these terrible lines;
Something bad they must mean, tho' we can't make it out;
For whate'er may be guessed of Galt's secret designs,
That they're all _Anti_-English no Christian can doubt.

[1] "That dark disease ichor which colored her effusions."--GALT'S _Life
of Byron_.

[2] "The gelatinous character of their effusions." _Ibid_.

[3] "The poetical embalmment or rather amber immortalization."--

[4] "Sitting amidst the shrouds and rattlings, churning an inarticulate

[5] "He was a mystery in a winding sheet, crowned with a halo."--



Resolved--to stick to every particle
Of every Creed and every Article;
Reforming naught, or great or little,
We'll stanchly stand by every tittle,
And scorn the swallow of that soul
Which cannot boldly bolt the whole.[1]
Resolved that tho' St. Athanasius
In damning souls is rather spacious--
Tho' wide and far his curses fall,
Our Church "hath stomach for them all;"
And those who're not content with such,
May e'en be damned ten times as much.

Resolved--such liberal souls are we--
Tho' hating Nonconformity,
We yet believe the cash no worse is
That comes from Nonconformist purses.
Indifferent _whence_ the money reaches
The pockets of our reverend breeches,
To us the Jumper's jingling penny
Chinks with a tone as sweet as any;
And even our old friends Yea and Nay
May thro' the nose for ever pray,
If _also_ thro' the nose they'll pay.

Resolved that Hooper,[2] Latimer,[3]
And Cranmer,[4] all extremely err,
In taking such a low-bred view
Of what Lords Spiritual ought to do:--
All owing to the fact, poor men,
That Mother Church was modest then,
Nor knew what golden eggs her goose,
The Public, would in time produce.
One Pisgah peep at modern Durham
To far more lordly thoughts would stir 'em.

Resolved that when we Spiritual Lords
Whose income just enough affords
To keep our Spiritual Lordships cosey,
Are told by Antiquarians prosy
How ancient Bishops cut up theirs,
Giving the poor the largest shares--
Our answer is, in one short word,
We think it pious but absurd.
Those good men made the world their debtor,
But we, the Church reformed, know better;
And taking all that all can pay,
Balance the account the other way.

Resolved our thanks profoundly due are
To last month's Quarterly Reviewer,
Who proves by arguments so clear
(One sees how much he holds _per_ year)
That England's Church, tho' out of date,
Must still be left to lie in state,
As dead, as rotten and as grand as
The mummy of King Osymandyas,
All pickled snug--the brains drawn out--
With costly cerements swathed about,--
And "Touch me not," those words terrific,
Scrawled o'er her in good hieroglyphic.

[1] One of the questions propounded to the Puritans in 1573 was--"Whether
the Book of Service was good and godly, every tittle grounded on the Holy
Scripture?" On which an honest Dissenter remarks--"Surely they had a
wonderful opinion of their Service Book that there was not a _tittle_
amiss, in it."

[2] "They," the Bishops, "know that the primitive Church had no such
Bishops. If the fourth part of the bishopric remained unto the Bishop, it
were sufficient."--_On the Commandments_, p. 72.

[3] "Since the Prelates were made Lords and Nobles, the plough standeth,
there is no work done, the people starve."--_Lat. Serm_.

[4] "Of whom have come all these glorious titles, styles, and pomps into
the Church. But I would that I, and all my brethren, the Bishops, would
leave all our styles, and write the styles of our offices," etc.--_Life
of Cranmer, by Strype, Appendix_.


"_nec tu sperne piis venientia somnia portis:
cum pia venerunt somnia, pondus liubent_."
PROPERT. _lib. iv. eleg_. 7.

As snug, on a Sunday eve, of late,
In his easy chair Sir Andrew sate,
Being much too pious, as every one knows,
To do aught, of a Sunday eve, but doze,
He dreamt a dream, dear, holy man,
And I'll tell you his dream as well as I can.
He found himself, to his great amaze,
In Charles the First's high Tory days,
And just at the time that gravest of Courts
Had publisht its Book of Sunday Sports.[1]

_Sunday_ Sports! what a thing for the ear
Of Andrew even in sleep to hear!--
It chanced to be too a Sabbath day
When the people from church were coming away;
And Andrew with horror heard this song.
As the smiling sinners flockt along;--
"Long life to the Bishops, hurrah! hurrah!
"For a week of work and a Sunday of play
"Make the poor man's life run merry away."

"The Bishops!" quoth Andrew, "Popish, I guess,"
And he grinned with conscious holiness.
But the song went on, and, to brim the cup
Of poor Andy's grief, the fiddles struck up!

"Come, take out the lasses--let's have a dance--
"For the Bishops allow us to skip our fill,
"Well knowing that no one's the more in advance
"On the road to heaven, for standing still.
"Oh! it never was meant that grim grimaces
"Should sour the cream of a creed of love;
"Or that fellows with long, disastrous faces,
"Alone should sit among cherubs above.
"Then hurrah for the Bishops, etc.

"For Sunday fun we never can fail,
"When the Church herself each sport points out;--
"There's May-games, archery, Whitsun-ale,
"And a May-pole high to dance about.
"Or should we be for a pole hard driven,
"Some lengthy saint of aspect fell,
"With his pockets on earth and his nose in heaven,
"Will do for a May-pole just as well.
"Then hurrah for the Bishops, hurrah! hurrah!
"A week of work and a Sabbath of play
"Make the poor man's life run merry away."

To Andy, who doesn't much deal in history,
This Sunday scene was a downright mystery;
And God knows where might have ended the joke,
But, in trying to stop the fiddles, he woke,
And the odd thing is (as the rumor goes)
That since that dream--which, one would suppose,
Should have made his godly stomach rise.
Even more than ever 'gainst Sunday pies--
He has viewed things quite with different eyes;
Is beginning to take, on matters divine,
Like Charles and his Bishops, the _sporting_ line--
Is all for Christians jigging in pairs,
As an interlude 'twixt Sunday prayers:--
Nay, talks of getting Archbishop Howley
To bring in a Bill enacting duly
That all good Protestants from this date
May freely and lawfully recreate,
Of a Sunday eve, their spirits moody,
With Jack in the Straw or Punch and Judy.

[1] _The Book of Sports_ drawn up by Bishop Moreton was first put forth in
the reign of James I., 1618, and afterwards republished, at the advice of
Laud, by Charles I., 1633, with an injunction that it should be "made
public by order from the Bishops." We find it therein declared, that "for
his good people's recreation, his Majesty's pleasure was, that after the
end of divine service they should not be disturbed, letted, or discouraged
from any lawful recreations, such as dancing, either of men or women,
archery for men, leaping, vaulting, or any such harmless recreations, nor
having of May-games, Whitsun-ales, or Morris-dances, or setting up of May
poles, or other sports therewith used." etc.


TO MISS-----.

Air-"_Come live with me and be my love_."

Come wed with me and we will write,
My Blue of Blues, from morn till night.
Chased from our classic souls shall be
All thoughts of vulgar progeny;
And thou shalt walk through smiling rows
Of chubby duodecimos,
While I, to match thy products nearly,
Shall lie-in of a quarto yearly.
'Tis true, even books entail some trouble;
But _live_ productions give one double.

Correcting children is _such_ bother,--
While printers' devils correct the other.
Just think, my own Malthusian dear,
How much more decent 'tis to hear
From male or female--as it may be--
"How is your book?" than "How's your baby?"
And whereas physic and wet nurses
Do much exhaust paternal purses,
Our books if rickety may go
And be well dry-nurst in _the Row_;
And when God wills to take them hence,
Are buried at _the Row's_ expense.

Besides, (as 'tis well proved by thee,
In thy own Works, vol. 93.)
The march, just now, of population
So much outscrips all moderation,
That even prolific herring-shoals
Keep pace not with our erring souls.[1]
Oh far more proper and well-bred
To stick to writing books instead;
And show the world how two Blue lovers
Can coalesce, like two book-covers,
(Sheep-skin, or calf, or such wise leather,)
Lettered at back and stitched together
Fondly as first the binder fixt 'em,
With naught but--literature betwixt 'em.

[1] See "Ella of Garveloch."--Garveloch being a place where there
was a large herring-fishery, but where, as we are told by the author, "the
people increased much faster than the produce."



Puir, profligate Londoners, having heard tell
That the De'il's got amang ye, and fearing 'tis true,
We ha' sent ye a mon wha's a match for his spell,
A chiel o' our ain, that the De'il himsel
Will be glad to keep clear of, ane Andrew Agnew.

So at least ye may reckon for one day entire
In ilka lang week ye'll be tranquil eneugh,
As Auld Nick, do him justice, abhors a Scotch squire,
An' would sooner gae roast by his ain kitchen fire
Than pass a hale Sunday wi' Andrew Agnew.

For, bless the gude mon, gin he had his ain way,
He'd na let a cat on the Sabbath say "mew;"
Nae birdie maun whistle, nae lambie maun play,
An Phoebus himsel could na travel that day.
As he'd find a new Joshua in Andie Agnew.

Only hear, in your Senate, how awfu' he cries,
"Wae, wae to a' sinners who boil an' who stew!
"Wae, wae to a' eaters o' Sabbath baked pies,
"For as surely again shall the crust thereof rise
"In judgment against ye," saith Andrew Agnew!

Ye may think, from a' this, that our Andie's the lad
To ca' o'er the coals your nobeelity too;
That their drives, o' a Sunday, wi' flunkies,[1] a' clad
Like Shawmen, behind 'em, would mak the mon mad--
But he's nae sic a noodle, our Andie Agnew.

If Lairds an' fine Ladies, on Sunday, think right
To gang to the deevil--as maist o' 'em do--
To stop them our Andie would think na polite;
And 'tis odds (if the chiel could get onything by't)
But he'd follow 'em, booing, would Andrew Agnew.

[1] Servants in livery.


Yes, Winchelsea (I tremble while I pen it),
Winehelsea's Earl hath _cut_ the British Senate--
Hath said to England's Peers, in accent gruff,
"_That_ for ye all"[snapping his fingers] and exit in a huff!

Disastrous news!--like that of old which spread,
From shore to shore, "our mighty Pan is dead,"
O'er the cross benches (cross from _being_ crost)
Sounds the loud wail, "Our Winchelsea is lost!"

Which of ye, Lords, that heard him can forget
The deep impression of that awful threat,
"I quit your house!!"--midst all that histories tell,
I know but _one_ event that's parallel:--

It chanced at Drury Lane, one Easter night,
When the gay gods too blest to be polite
Gods at their ease, like those of learned Lucretius,
Laught, whistled, groaned, uproariously facetious--
A well-drest member of the middle gallery,
Whose "ears polite" disdained such low canaillerie,
Rose in his place--so grand, you'd almost swear
Lord Winchelsea himself stood towering there--
And like that Lord of dignity and _nous_,
Said, "Silence, fellows, or--I'll leave the house!!"

How brookt the gods this speech? Ah well-a-day,
That speech so fine should be so thrown away!
In vain did this mid-gallery grandee
Assert his own two-shilling dignity--
In vain he menaced to withdraw the ray
Of his own full-price countenance away--
Fun against Dignity is fearful odds,
And as the Lords laugh _now_, so giggled _then_ the gods!



"We want more Churches and more Clergymen."
_Bishop of London's late Charge_.

_"rectorum numerum, terris pereuntibus augent."
Claudian in Eutrop_.

Come, give us more Livings and Rectors,
For, richer no realm ever gave;
But why, ye unchristian objectors,
Do ye ask us how many we crave?[1]

Oh there can't be too many rich Livings
For souls of the Pluralist kind,
Who, despising old Crocker's misgivings,
To numbers can ne'er be confined.[2]

Count the cormorants hovering about,[3]
At the time their fish season sets in,
When these models of keen diners-out
Are preparing their beaks to begin.

Count the rooks that, in clerical dresses,
Flock round when the harvest's in play,
And not minding the farmer's distresses,
Like devils in grain peck away.

Go, number the locusts in heaven,[4]
On the way to some titheable shore;
And when so many Parsons you've given,
We still shall be craving for more.

Then, unless ye the Church would submerge, ye
Must leave us in peace to augment.
For the wretch who could number the Clergy,
With few will be ever content.

Come, Cloe, and give me sweet kisses,
For sweeter sure never girl gave;
But why, in the midst of my blisses,
Do you ask me how many I'd have?

For whilst I love thee above measure,
To numbers I'll ne'er be confined.

Count the bees that on Hybla are playing,
Count the flowers that enamel its fields,
Count the flocks, etc.

Go number the stars in the heaven,
Count how many sands on the shore,
When so many kisses you've given,
I still shall be craving for more.


"If it be the undergraduate season at which this _rabies
religiosa_ is to be so fearful, what security has Mr. Goulburn
against it at this moment, when his son is actually exposed to the
full venom of an association with Dissenters?"
--_The Times_, March 25.

How sad a case!--just think of it--
If Goulburn junior should be bit
By some insane Dissenter, roaming
Thro' Granta's halls, at large and foaming,
And with that aspect _ultra_ crabbed
Which marks Dissenters when they're rabid!
God only knows what mischiefs might
Result from this one single bite,
Or how the venom, once suckt in,
Might spread and rage thro' kith and kin.
Mad folks of all denominations
First turn upon their own relations:
So that _one_ Goulburn, fairly bit,
Might end in maddening the whole kit,
Till ah! ye gods! we'd have to rue
Our Goulburn senior bitten too;
The Hychurchphobia in those veins,
Where Tory blood now redly reigns;--
And that dear man who now perceives
Salvation only in lawn sleeves,
Might, tainted by such coarse infection,
Run mad in the opposite direction.
And think, poor man, 'tis only given
To linsey-woolsey to reach Heaven!

Just fancy what a shock 'twould be
Our Goulburn in his fits to see,
Tearing into a thousand particles
His once-loved Nine and Thirty Articles;
(Those Articles his friend, the Duke,[1]
For Gospel, t'other night, mistook;)
Cursing cathedrals, deans and singers--
Wishing the ropes might hang the ringers--
Pelting the church with blasphemies,
Even worse than Parson Beverley's;--
And ripe for severing Church and State,
Like any creedless reprobate,
Or like that class of Methodists
Prince Waterloo styles "Atheists!"

But 'tis too much--the Muse turns pale,
And o'er the picture drops a veil,
Praying, God save the Goulburns all
From mad Dissenters great and small!

[1] The Duke of Wellington, who styled them "the Articles of


--risum _tenaetis, amici_

"The longer one lives, the more one learns,"
Said I, as off to sleep I went,
Bemused with thinking of Tithe concerns,
And reading a book by the Bishop of FERNS,[1]
On the Irish Church Establishment.
But lo! in sleep not long I lay,
When Fancy her usual tricks began,
And I found myself bewitched away
To a goodly city in Hindostan--
A city where he who dares to dine
On aught but rice is deemed a sinner;
Where sheep and kine are held divine,
And accordingly--never drest for dinner.

"But how is this?" I wondering cried--
As I walkt that city fair and wide,
And saw, in every marble street,
A row of beautiful butchers' shops--
"What means, for men who don't eat meat,
"This grand display of loins and chops?"
In vain I askt--'twas plain to see
That nobody dared to answer me.

So on from street to street I strode:
And you can't conceive how vastly odd
The butchers lookt--a roseate crew,
Inshrined in _stalls_ with naught to do;
While some on a _bench_, half dozing, sat,
And the Sacred Cows were not more fat.
Still posed to think what all this scene
Of sinecure trade was _meant_ to mean,
"And, pray," askt I--"by whom is paid
The expense of this strange masquerade?"--
"The expense!--oh! that's of course defrayed
(Said one of these well-fed Hecatombers)
"By yonder rascally rice-consumers."
"What! _they_ who mustn't eat meat!"--
No matter--
(And while he spoke his cheeks grew fatter,)
"The rogues may munch their _Paddy_ crop,
"But the rogues must still support _our_ shop,
"And depend upon it, the way to treat
"Heretical stomachs that thus dissent,
"Is to burden all that won't eat meat,

On hearing these words so gravely said,
With a volley of laughter loud I shook,
And my slumber fled and my dream was sped,
And I found I was lying snug in bed,
With my nose in the Bishop of FERNS'S book.

[1] An indefatigable scribbler of anti-Catholic pamphlets.


A letter having been addressed to a very distinguished personage,
requesting him to become the Patron of this Orange Club, a polite answer
was forthwith returned, of which we have been fortunate enough to obtain a

_Brimstone-hall, September 1, 1828_.

_Private_,--Lord Belzebub presents
To the Brunswick Club his compliments.
And much regrets to say that he
Can not at present their Patron be.
In stating this, Lord Belzebub
Assures on his honor the Brunswick Club,
That 'tisn't from any lukewarm lack
Of zeal or fire he thus holds back--
As even Lord _Coal_ himself is not[1]
For the Orange party more red-hot:
But the truth is, still their Club affords
A somewhat decenter show of Lords,
And on its list of members gets
A few less rubbishy Baronets,
Lord Belzebub must beg to be
Excused from keeping such company.

Who the devil, he humbly begs to know,
Are Lord Glandine, and Lord Dunlo?
Or who, with a grain of sense, would go
To sit and be bored by Lord Mayo?
What living creature--_except his nurse_--
For Lord Mountcashel cares a curse,
Or think 'twould matter if Lord Muskerry
Were 'tother side of the Stygian ferry?
Breathes there a man in Dublin town,
Who'd give but half of half-a-crown
To save from drowning my Lord Rathdowne,
Or who wouldn't also gladly hustle in
Lords Roden, Bandon, Cole and Jocelyn?
In short, tho' from his tenderest years,
Accustomed to all sorts of Peers,
Lord Belzebub much questions whether
He ever yet saw mixt together
As 'twere in one capacious tub.
Such a mess of noble silly-bub
As the twenty Peers of the Brunswick Club.
'Tis therefore impossible that Lord B.
Could stoop to such society,
Thinking, he owns (tho' no great prig),
For one in his station 'twere _infra dig_.
But he begs to propose, in the interim
(Till they find some properer Peers for him),
His Highness of Cumberland, as _Sub_
To take his place at the Brunswick Club--
Begging, meanwhile, himself to dub
Their obedient servant,

It luckily happens, the Royal Duke
Resembles so much, in air and look,
The head of the Belzebub family,
That few can any difference see;
Which makes him of course the better suit
To serve as Lord B.'s substitute.

[1] Usually written Cole.



--"_quas ipsa decus sibi dia Camilla
delegit pacisque bonas bellique ministras_."

As Whig Reform has had its range,
And none of us are yet content,
Suppose, my friends, by way of change,
We try a _Female Parliament_;
And since of late with _he_ M.P.'s
We've fared so badly, take to she's--
Petticoat patriots, flounced John Russells,
Burdetts in _blonde_ and Broughams in _bustles_.

The plan is startling, I confess--
But 'tis but an affair of dress;
Nor see I much there is to choose
'Twixt Ladies (so they're thorough-bred ones)
In ribands of all sorts of hues,
Or Lords in only blue or red ones.

At least the fiddlers will be winners,
Whatever other trade advances
As then, instead of Cabinet dinners
We'll have, at Almack's, Cabinet dances;
Nor let this world's important questions
Depend on Ministers' digestions.

If Ude's receipts have done things ill,
To Weippert's band they may go better;
There's Lady **, in one quadrille,
Would settle Europe, if you'd let her:
And who the deuce or asks or cares
When Whigs or Tories have undone 'em,
Whether they've _danced_ thro' State affairs,
Or simply, dully, _dined_ upon 'em?

Hurrah then for the Petticoats!
To them we pledge our free-born votes;
We'll have all _she_, and only _she_--
Pert blues shall act as "best debaters,"
Old dowagers our Bishops be,
And termagants our agitators.
If Vestris to oblige the nation
Her own Olympus will abandon
And help to prop the Administration,
It _can't_ have better legs to stand on.
The famed Macaulay (Miss) shall show
Each evening, forth in learned oration;
Shall move (midst general cries of "Oh!")
For full returns of population:
And finally to crown the whole,
The Princess Olive, Royal soul,[1]
Shall from her bower in Banco Regis,
Descend to bless her faithful lieges,
And mid our Union's loyal chorus
Reign jollily for ever o'er us.

[1] A personage so styled herself who attained considerable notoriety at
that period.



Having heard some rumors respecting the strange and awful visitation under
which Lord Henley has for some time past been suffering, in consequence of
his declared hostility to "anthems, solos, duets,"[1] etc., I took the
liberty of making inquiries at his Lordship's house this morning and lose
no time in transmitting to you such particulars as I could collect. It is
said that the screams of his Lordship, under the operation of this nightly
concert, (which is no doubt some trick of the Radicals), may be heard all
over the neighborhood. The female who personates St. Cecilia is supposed
to be the same that last year appeared in the character of Isis at the
Rotunda. How the cherubs are managed, I have not yet ascertained.

Yours, etc.

P. P.

[1] In a work, on Church Reform, published by his Lordship in 1832.


--_in Metii decenaat Judicis aures_.

As snug in his bed Lord Henley lay,
Revolving much his own renown,
And hoping to add thereto a ray
By putting duets and anthems down,

Sudden a strain of choral sounds
Mellifluous o'er his senses stole;
Whereat the Reformer muttered "Zounds!"
For he loathed sweet music with all his soul.

Then starting up he saw a sight
That well might shock so learned a snorer--
Saint Cecilia robed in light
With a portable organ slung before her.

And round were Cherubs on rainbow wings,
Who, his Lordship feared, might tire of flitting,
So begged they'd sit--but ah! poor things,
They'd, none of them, got the means of sitting.

"Having heard," said the Saint, "you're fond of hymns,
"And indeed that musical snore betrayed you,
"Myself and my choir of cherubims
"Are come for a while to serenade you."

In vain did the horrified Henley say
"'Twas all a mistake--she was misdirected;"
And point to a concert over the way
Where fiddlers and angels were expected.

In vain--the Saint could see in his looks
(She civilly said) much tuneful lore;
So at once all opened their music-books,
And herself and her Cherubs set off at score.

All night duets, terzets, quartets,
Nay, long quintets most dire to hear;
Ay, and old motets and canzonets
And glees in sets kept boring his ear.

He tried to sleep--but it wouldn't do;
So loud they squalled, he _must_ attend to 'em.
Tho' Cherubs' songs to his cost he knew
Were like themselves and had no end to 'em.

Oh judgment dire on judges bold,
Who meddle with music's sacred strains!
Judge Midas tried the same of old
And was punisht like Henley for his pains.

But worse on the modern judge, alas!
Is the sentence launched from Apollo's throne;
For Midas was given the ears of an ass,
While Henley is doomed to keep his own!



Missing or lost, last Sunday night,
A Waterloo coin whereon was traced
The inscription, "Courage!" in letters bright,
Tho' a little by rust of years defaced.

The metal thereof is rough and hard,
And ('tis thought of late) mixt up with brass;
But it bears the stamp of Fame's award,
And thro' all Posterity's hands will pass.

_How_ it was lost God only knows,
But certain _City_ thieves, they say,
Broke in on the owner's evening doze,
And filched this "gift of gods" away!

One ne'er could, of course, the Cits suspect,
If we hadn't that evening chanced to see,
At the robbed man's door a _Mare_ elect
With an ass to keep her company.

Whosoe'er of this lost treasure knows,
Is begged to state all facts about it,
As the owner can't well face his foes,
Nor even his friends just now without it.

And if Sir Clod will bring it back,
Like a trusty Baronet, wise and able,
He shall have a ride on the whitest hack[2]
That's left in old King George's stable.

[1] Written at that memorable crisis when a distinguished duke, then Prime
Minister, acting under the inspirations of Sir Claudius Hunter, and other
City worthies, advised his Majesty to give up his announced intention of
dining with the Lord Mayor.

[2] Among other remarkable attributes by which Sir Claudius distinguished
himself, the dazzling whiteness of his favorite steed vas not the least


Carlton Terrace, 1832.

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