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

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Whereas, Lord ---- de ----
Left his home last Saturday,
And, tho' inquired for round and round
Thro' certain purlieus, can't be found;
And whereas, none can solve our queries
As to where this virtuous Peer is,
Notice is hereby given that all
May forthwith to inquiring fall,
As, once the thing's well set about,
No doubt but we shall hunt him out.

His Lordship's mind, of late, they say,
Hath been in an uneasy way,
Himself and colleagues not being let
To climb into the Cabinet,
To settle England's state affairs,
Hath much, it seems, _un_settled theirs;
And chief to this stray Plenipo
Hath been a most distressing blow.
Already,-certain to receive a
Well-paid mission to the Neva,
And be the bearer of kind words
To tyrant Nick from Tory Lords,-
To fit himself for free discussion,
His Lordship had been learning Russian;
And all so natural to him were
The accents of the Northern bear,
That while his tones were in your ear, you
Might swear you were in sweet Siberia.
And still, poor Peer, to old and young,
He goes on raving in that tongue;
Tells you how much you would enjoy a
Trip to Dalnodubrovrkoya;[1]
Talks of such places by the score on
As Oulisflirmchinagoboron,[2]
And swears (for he at nothing sticks)
That Russia swarms with Raskolniks,
Tho' _one_ such Nick, God knows, must be
A more than ample quantity.

Such are the marks by which to know
This strayed or stolen Plenipo;
And whosoever brings or sends
The unhappy statesman to his friends
On Carlton Terrace, shall have thanks,
And--any paper but the Bank's.

P.S.--Some think the disappearance
Of this our diplomatic Peer hence
Is for the purpose of reviewing,
_In person_, what dear Mig is doing,
So as to 'scape all tell-tale letters
'Bout Beresford, and such abetters,--
The only "wretches" for whose aid[3]
Letters seem _not_ to have been made.

[1] In the Government of Perm.

[2] Territory belonging to the mines of Kolivano-Kosskressense.

[3] "Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid." POPE.





"Solemn dances were, on great festivals and celebrations, admitted
among the primitive Christians, in which even the Bishops and
dignified Clergy were performers. Scaliger says, that the first
Bishops were called _praesules_[2] for other reason than that
they led off these dances."--"_Cyclopaedia_," art. _Dances_.

I've had such a dream--a frightful dream--
Tho' funny mayhap to wags 'twill seem,
By all who regard the Church, like us,
'Twill be thought exceedingly ominous!

As reading in bed I lay last night--
Which (being insured) is my delight--
I happened to doze off just as I got to
The singular fact which forms my motto.
Only think, thought I, as I dozed away,
Of a party of Churchmen dancing the hay!
Clerks, curates and rectors capering all
With a neat-legged Bishop to open the ball!
Scarce had my eyelids time to close,
When the scene I had fancied before me rose--
An Episcopal Hop on a scale so grand
As my dazzled eyes could hardly stand.
For Britain and Erin clubbed their Sees
To make it a Dance of Dignities,
And I saw--oh brightest of Church events!
A quadrille of the two Establishments,
Bishop to Bishop _vis-a-vis_,
Footing away prodigiously.

There was Bristol capering up to Derry,
And Cork with London making merry;
While huge Llandaff, with a See, so so,
Was to dear old Dublin pointing his toe.
There was Chester, hatched by woman's smile,
Performing a _chaine des Dames_ in style;
While he who, whene'er the Lords' House dozes,
Can waken them up by citing Moses,[3]
The portly Tuam, was all in a hurry
To set, _en avant_, to Canterbury.

Meantime, while pamphlets stuft his pockets,
(All out of date like spent skyrockets,)
Our Exeter stood forth to caper,
As high on the floor as he doth on paper--
like a dapper Dancing Dervise,
Who pirouettes his whole church-service--
Performing, midst those reverend souls,
Such _entrechats_, such _cabrioles_,
Such _balonnes_, such--rigmaroles,
Now high, now low, now this, that,
That none could guess what the devil he'd be at;
Tho', watching his various steps, some thought
That a step in the Church was all he sought.

But alas, alas! while thus so gay.
These reverend dancers friskt away,
Nor Paul himself (not the saint, but he
Of the Opera-house) could brisker be,
There gathered a gloom around their glee--
A shadow which came and went so fast,
That ere one could say "'Tis there," 'twas past--
And, lo! when the scene again was cleared,
Ten of the dancers had disappeared!
Ten able-bodied quadrillers swept
From the hallowed floor where late they stept,
While twelve was all that footed it still,
On the Irish side of that grand Quadrille!

Nor this the worst:--still danced they on,
But the pomp was saddened, the smile was gone;
And again from time to time the same
Ill-omened darkness round them came--
While still as the light broke out anew,
Their ranks lookt less by a dozen or two;
Till ah! at last there were only found
Just Bishops enough for a four-hands-round;
And when I awoke, impatient getting,
I left the last holy pair _poussetting_!

N.B.--As ladies in years, it seems,
Have the happiest knack at solving dreams,
I shall leave to my ancient feminine friends
Of the _Standard_ to say what _this_ portends.

[1] Written on the passing of the memorable Bill, in the year 1833, for
the abolition of ten Irish Bishoprics.

[2] Literally, First Dancers.

[3] "And what does Moses say?"--One of the ejaculations with which this
eminent prelate enlivened his famous speech on the Catholic question.

DICK * * * *


Of various scraps and fragments built,
Borrowed alike from fools and wits,
Dick's mind was like a patchwork quilt,
Made up of new, old, motley bits--
Where, if the _Co_. called in their shares,
If petticoats their quota got
And gowns were all refunded theirs,
The quilt would look but shy, God wot.

And thus he still, new plagiaries seeking,
Reversed ventriloquism's trick,
For, 'stead of Dick thro' others speaking,
'Twas others we heard speak thro' Dick.
A Tory now, all bounds exceeding,
Now best of Whigs, now worst of rats;
One day with Malthus, foe to breeding,
The next with Sadler, all for brats.

Poor Dick!--and how else could it be?
With notions all at random caught,
A sort of mental fricassee,
Made up of legs and wings of thought--
The leavings of the last Debate, or
A dinner, yesterday, of wits,
Where Dick sate by and, like a waiter,
Had the scraps for perquisites.



"Then I heard one saint speaking, and
another saint said unto that saint,"

St. Sinclair rose and declared in smooth,
That he wouldn't give sixpence to Maynooth.
He had hated priests the whole of his life,
For a priest was a man who had no wife,[1]
And, having no wife, the Church was his mother,
The Church was his father, sister and brother.
This being the case, he was sorry to say
That a gulf 'twixt Papist and Protestant lay,[2]
So deep and wide, scarce possible was it
To say even "how d' ye do?" across it:
And tho' your Liberals, nimble as fleas,
Could clear such gulfs with perfect ease,
'Twas a jump that naught on earth could make
Your proper, heavy-built Christian take.
No, no,--if a Dance of Sects _must_ be,
He would set to the Baptist willingly,[3]
At the Independent deign to smirk,
And rigadoon with old Mother Kirk;
Nay even, for once, if needs must be,
He'd take hands round with all the three;
But as to a jig with Popery, no,--
To the Harlot ne'er would he point his toe.

St. Mandeville was the next that rose,--
A saint who round as pedler goes
With his pack of piety and prose,
Heavy and hot enough, God knows,--
And he said that Papists were much inclined
To extirpate all of Protestant kind,
Which he couldn't in truth so much condemn,
Having rather a wish to extirpate _them_;
That is,--to guard against mistake,--
To extirpate them for their doctrine's sake;
A distinction Churchman always make,--
Insomuch that when they've prime control,
Tho' sometimes roasting heretics whole,
They but cook the body for sake of the soul.

Next jumpt St. Johnston jollily forth,
The spiritual Dogberry of the North,[4]
A right "wise fellow, and what's more,
An officer," like his type of yore;
And he asked if we grant such toleration,
Pray, what's the use of our Reformation?
What is the use of our Church and State?
Our Bishops, Articles, Tithe and Rate?
And still as he yelled out "what's the use?"
Old Echoes, from their cells recluse
Where they'd for centuries slept, broke loose,
Yelling responsive, "_What's the use_?"

[1] "He objected to the maintenance and education of clergy _bound by
the particular vows of celibacy, which as it were gave them the Church as
their only family, making it fill the places of father and mother and
brother_."--Debate on the Grant to Maynooth College, _The Times_,
April 19.

[2] "It had always appeared to him that _between the Catholic and
Protestant a great gulf_ intervened, with rendered it impossible," etc.

[3] The Baptist might acceptably extend the offices of religion to the
Presbyterian and the Independent, or the member of the Church of England
to any of the other three; but the Catholic," etc.

[4] "Could he then, holding as he did a spiritual office in the Church of
Scotland, (cries of hear, and laughter,) with any consistency give his
consent to a grant of money?" etc.



"His Lordship said that it took a long time for a moral position to
find its way across the Atlantic. He was very sorry that its voyage
had been so long," etc.--Speech of Lord Dudley and Ward on Colonial
Slavery, March 8.

T'other night, after hearing Lord Dudley's oration
(A treat that comes once a year as May-day does),
I dreamt that I saw--what a strange operation!
A "moral position" shipt off for Barbadoes.

The whole Bench of Bishops stood by in grave attitudes,
Packing the article tidy and neat;--
As their Reverences know that in southerly latitudes
"Moral positions" don't keep very sweet.

There was Bathurst arranging the custom-house pass;
And to guard the frail package from tousing and routing,
There stood my Lord Eldon, endorsing it "Glass,"
Tho' as to which side should lie uppermost, doubting.
The freight was however stowed safe in the hold;
The winds were polite and the moon lookt romantic,
While off in the good ship "The Truth" we were rolled,
With our ethical cargo, across the Atlantic.
Long, dolefully long, seemed the voyage we made;
For "The Truth," at all times but a very slow sailer,
By friends, near as much as by foes, is delayed,
And few come aboard her tho' so many hail her.

At length, safe arrived, I went thro' "tare and tret,"
Delivered my goods in the primest condition.
And next morning read in the _Bridge-town Gazette_,
"Just arrived by 'The Truth,' a new moral position.

"The Captain"--here, startled to find myself named
As "the Captain"--(a thing which, I own it with pain,
I thro' life have avoided,) I woke--lookt ashamed,
Found I _wasn't_ a captain and dozed off again.




_'mutantem regna cometem."_

"Tho' all the pet mischiefs we count upon fail,
"Tho' Cholera, hurricanes, Wellington leave us,
"We've still in reserve, mighty Comet, thy tail;--
"Last hope" of the Tories, wilt thou too deceive us?

"No--'tis coming, 'tis coming, the avenger is nigh;
"Heed, heed not, ye placemen, how Herapath flatters;
"One whisk from that tail as it passes us by
"Will settle at once all political matters;--

"The East-India Question, the Bank, the Five Powers,
"(Now turned into two) with their rigmarole Protocols;--
"Ha! ha! ye gods, how this new friend of ours
"Will knock, right and left, all diplomacy's what-d'ye-calls!

"Yes, rather than Whigs at our downfall should mock,
"Meet planets and suns in one general hustle!
"While happy in vengeance we welcome the shock
"That shall jerk from their places, Grey, Althorp and Russell."

Thus spoke a mad Lord, as, with telescope raised,
His wild Tory eye on the heavens he set:
And tho' nothing destructive appeared as he gazed,
Much hoped that there _would_ before Parliament met.

And still, as odd shapes seemed to flit thro' his glass,
"Ha! there it is now," the poor maniac cries;
While his fancy with forms but too monstrous, alas!
From his own Tory zodiac peoples the skies:--

"Now I spy a big body, good heavens, how big!
"Whether Bucky[2] or Taurus I cannot well say:--
"And yonder there's Eldon's old Chancery wig,
"In its dusty aphelion fast fading away.

"I see, 'mong those fatuous meteors behind,
"Londonderry, _in vacuo_, flaring about;--
"While that dim double star, of the nebulous kind,
"Is the Gemini, Roden and Lorton, no doubt.

"Ah, Ellenborough! 'faith, I first thought 'twas the Comet;
"So like that in Milton, it made me quite pale;
"The head with the same 'horrid hair' coming from it,
"And plenty of vapor, but--where is the tail?"

Just then, up aloft jumpt the gazer elated--
For lo! his bright glass a phenomenon showed,
Which he took to be Cumberland, _upwards_ translated,
Instead of his natural course, _t'other_ road!

But too awful that sight for a spirit so shaken,--
Down dropt the poor Tory in fits and grimaces,
Then off to the Bedlam in Charles Street was taken,
And is now one of Halford's most favorite cases.

[1] Eclipses and comets have been always looked to as great changers of

[2] The Duke of Buckingham.

* * * * *


_Paris, March 30,1833_.

You bid me explain, my dear angry Ma'amselle,
How I came thus to bolt without saying farewell;
And the truth is,--as truth you _will_ have, my sweet railer,--
There are two worthy persons I always feel loath
To take leave of at starting,--my mistress and tailor,--
As somehow one always has _scenes_ with them both;
The Snip in ill-humor, the Syren in tears,
She calling on Heaven, and he on the attorney,--
Till sometimes, in short, 'twixt his duns and his dears,
A young gentleman risks being stopt in his journey.

But to come to the point, tho' you think, I dare say.
That 'tis debt or the Cholera drives me away,
'Pon honor you're wrong;--such a mere bagatelle
As a pestilence, nobody now-a-days fears;
And the fact is, my love, I'm thus bolting, pell-mell,
To get out of the way of these horrid new Peers;[1]
This deluge of coronets frightful to think of;
Which England is now for her sins on the brink of;
This coinage of _nobles_,--coined all of 'em, badly,
And sure to bring Counts to a _dis_-count most sadly.

Only think! to have Lords over running the nation,
As plenty as frogs in a Dutch inundation;
No shelter from Barons, from Earls no protection,
And tadpole young Lords too in every direction,--
Things created in haste just to make a Court list of,
Two legs and a coronet all they consist of!
The prospect's quite frightful, and what Sir George Rose
(My particular friend) says is perfectly true,
That, so dire the alternative, nobody knows,
'Twixt the Peers and the Pestilence, what he's to do;
And Sir George even doubts,--could he choose his disorder,--
'Twixt coffin and coronet, _which_ he would order.
This being the case, why, I thought, my dear Emma,
'Twere best to fight shy of so curst a dilemma;
And tho' I confess myself somewhat a villain,
To've left _idol mio_ without an _addio_,
Console your sweet heart, and a week hence from Milan
I'll send you--some news of Bellini's last trio.

N.B. Have just packt up my travelling set-out,
Things a tourist in Italy _can't_ go without--
Viz., a pair of _gants gras_, from old Houbigant's shop,
Good for hands that the air of Mont Cenis might chap.
Small presents for ladies,--and nothing so wheedles
The creatures abroad as your golden-eyed needles.
A neat pocket Horace by which folks are cozened
To think one knows Latin, when--one, perhaps, doesn't;
With some little book about heathen mythology,
Just large enough to refresh one's theology;
Nothing on earth being half such a bore as
Not knowing the difference 'twixt Virgins and Floras.
Once more, love, farewell, best regards to the girls,
And mind you beware of damp feet and new Earls.


[1] A new creation of Peers was generally expected at this time.


College.--We announced, in our last that Lefroy and Shaw were
returned. They were chaired yesterday; the Students of the College
determined, it would seem, to imitate the mob in all things,
harnessing themselves to the car, and the Masters of Arts bearing
Orange flags and bludgeons before, beside, and behind the car."
_Dublin Evening Post_, Dec. 20, 1832.

Ay, yoke ye to the bigots' car,
Ye chosen of Alma Mater's scions;-
Fleet chargers drew the God of War,
Great Cybele was drawn by lions,
And Sylvan Pan, as Poet's dream,
Drove four young panthers in his team.
Thus classical Lefroy, for once, is,
Thus, studious of a like turn-out,
He harnesses young sucking dunces,
To draw him as their Chief about,
And let the world a picture see
Of Dulness yoked to Bigotry:
Showing us how young College hacks
Can pace with bigots at their backs,
As tho' the cubs were _born_ to draw
Such luggage as Lefroy and Shaw,
Oh! shade of Goldsmith, shade of Swift,
Bright spirits whom, in days of yore,
This Queen of Dulness sent adrift,
As aliens to her foggy shore;---
Shade of our glorious Grattan, too,
Whose very name her shame recalls;
Whose effigy her bigot crew
Reversed upon their monkish walls,[1]--
Bear witness (lest the world should doubt)
To your mute Mother's dull renown,
Then famous but for Wit turned _out_,
And Eloquence _turned upside down_;
But now ordained new wreaths to win,
Beyond all fame of former days,
By breaking thus young donkies in
To draw M.P.s amid the brays
Alike of donkies and M.A.s;--
Defying Oxford to surpass 'em
In this new "_Gradus ad Parnassum_."

[1] In the year 1799, the Board of Trinity College, Dublin, thought
proper, as a mode of expressing their disapprobation of Mr. Grattan's
public conduct, to order his portrait, in the Great Hall of the
University, to be turned upside down, and in this position it remained for
some time.


_Scripta manet_.


'Twas graved on the Stone of Destiny,[1]
In letters four and letters three;
And ne'er did the King of the Gulls go by
But those awful letters scared his eye;
For he knew that a Prophet Voice had said,
"As long as those words by man were read,
"The ancient race of the Gulls should ne'er
"One hour of peace or plenty share."
But years on years successive flew,
And the letters still more legible grew,--
At top, a T, an H, an E,
And underneath, D. E. B. T.

Some thought them Hebrew,--such as Jews
More skilled in Scrip than Scripture use;
While some surmised 'twas an ancient way
Of keeping accounts, (well known in the day
Of the famed Didlerius Jeremias,
Who had thereto a wonderful bias,)
And proved in books most learnedly boring,
'Twas called the Pon_tick_ way of scoring.

Howe'er this be there never were yet
Seven letters of the alphabet,
That 'twixt them formed so grim a spell,
Or scared a Land of Gulls so well,
As did this awful riddle-me-ree
Of T. H. E. D. E. B. T.

* * * * *

Hark!--it is struggling Freedom's cry;
"Help, help, ye nations, or I die;
"'Tis Freedom's fight and on the field
"Where I expire _your_ doom is sealed."
The Gull-King hears the awakening call,
He hath summoned his Peers and Patriots all,
And he asks. "Ye noble Gulls, shall we
"Stand basely by at the fall of the Free,
"Nor utter a curse nor deal a blow?"
And they answer with voice of thunder, "No."

Out fly their flashing swords in the air!--
But,--why do they rest suspended there?
What sudden blight, what baleful charm,
Hath chilled each eye and checkt each arm?
Alas! some withering hand hath thrown
The veil from off that fatal stone,
And pointing now with sapless finger,
Showeth where dark those letters linger,--
Letters four and letters three,
T. H. E. D. E. B. T.

At sight thereof, each lifted brand
Powerless falls from every hand;
In vain the Patriot knits his brow,--
Even talk, his staple, fails him now.
In vain the King like a hero treads,
His Lords of the Treasury shake their heads;
And to all his talk of "brave and free,"
No answer getteth His Majesty
But "T. H. E. D. E. B. T."

In short, the whole Gull nation feels
They're fairly spell-bound, neck and heels;
And so, in the face of the laughing world,
Must e'en sit down with banners furled,
Adjourning all their dreams sublime
Of glory and war to-some other time.

[1] Liafail, or the Stone of Destiny,--for which see Westminster Abbey.



Of all the misfortunes as yet brought to pass
By this comet-like Bill, with its long tail of speeches,
The saddest and worst is the schism which, alas!
It has caused between Wetherel's waistcoat and breeches.

Some symptoms of this Anti-Union propensity
Had oft broken out in that quarter before;
But the breach, since the Bill, has attained such immensity,
Daniel himself could have scarce wisht it more.

Oh! haste to repair it, ye friends of good order,
Ye Atwoods and Wynns, ere the moment is past;
Who can doubt that we tread upon Anarchy's border,
When the ties that should hold men are loosening so fast?

_Make_ Wetherel yield to "some sort of Reform"
(As we all must, God help us! with very wry faces;)
And loud as he likes let him bluster and storm
About Corporate Rights, so he'll only wear braces.

Should those he now sports have been long in possession,
And, like his own borough, the worse for the wear,
Advise him at least as a prudent concession
To Intellect's progress, to buy a new pair.

Oh! who that e'er saw him when vocal he stands,
With a look something midway 'twixt Filch's and Lockit's,
While still, to inspire him, his deeply-thrust hands
Keep jingling the rhino in both breeches-pockets--

Who that ever has listened thro' groan and thro' cough,
To the speeches inspired by this music of pence,--
But must grieve that there's any thing like _falling off_
In that great nether source of his wit and his sense?

Who that knows how he lookt when, with grace debonair,
He began first to court--rather late in the season--
Or when, less fastidious, he sat in the chair
Of his old friend, the Nottingham Goddess of Reason;[1]

That Goddess whose borough-like virtue attracted
All mongers in _both_ wares to proffer their love;
Whose chair like the stool of the Pythoness acted,
As Wetherel's rants ever since go to prove;

_Who_ in short would not grieve if a man of his graces
Should go on rejecting, unwarned by the past,
The "moderate Reform" of a pair of new braces,
Till, some day,--he'll all fall to pieces at last.

[1] It will be recollected that the learned gentleman himself boasted, one
night, in the House of Commons, of having sat in the very chair which this
allegorical lady had occupied.


I pledge myself thro' thick and thin,
To labor still with zeal devout
To get the Outs, poor devils, in,
And turn the Ins, the wretches, out.

I pledge myself, tho' much bereft
Of ways and means of ruling ill,
To make the most of what are left,
And stick to all that's rotten still.

Tho' gone the days of place and pelf,
And drones no more take all the honey,
I pledge myself to cram myself
With all I can of public money.

To quarter on that social purse
My nephews, nieces, sisters, brothers,
Nor, so _we_ prosper, care a curse
How much 'tis at the expense of others.

I pledge myself, whenever Right
And Might on any point divide,
Not to ask which is black or white.
But take at once the strongest side.

For instance, in all Tithe discussions,
I'm _for_ the Reverend encroachers:-
I loathe the Poles, applaud the Russians,--
Am _for_ the Squires, _against_ the Poachers.

Betwixt the Corn-lords and the Poor
I've not the slightest hesitation,--
The People _must_ be starved, to insure
The Land its due remuneration.

I pledge myself to be no more
With Ireland's wrongs beprosed or shammed,--
I vote her grievances a _bore_,
So she may suffer and be damned.

Or if she kick, let it console us,
We still have plenty of red coats,
To cram the Church, that general bolus,
Down any given amount of throats.

I dearly love the Frankfort Diet,--
Think newspapers the worst of crimes;
And would, to give some chance of quiet,
Hang all the writers of _"The Times;_"

Break all their correspondents' bones,
All authors of "Reply," "Rejoinder,"
From the Anti-Tory, Colonel Jones,
To the Anti-Suttee, Mr. Poynder.

Such are the Pledges I propose;
And tho' I can't now offer gold,
There's many a way of buying those
Who've but the taste for being sold.

So here's, with three times three hurrahs,
A toast of which you'll not complain,--
"Long life to jobbing; may the days
"Of Peculation shine again!"




As St. Jerome who died some ages ago,
Was sitting one day in the shades below,
"I've heard much of English bishops," quoth he,
"And shall now take a trip to earth to see
"How far they agree in their lives and ways
"With our good old bishops of ancient days."

He had learned--but learned without misgivings--
Their love for good living and eke good livings;
Not knowing (as ne'er having taken degrees)
That good _living_ means claret and fricassees,
While its plural means simply--pluralities.

"From all I hear," said the innocent man,
"They are quite on the good old primitive plan.
"For wealth and pomp they little can care,
"As they all say _'No'_ to the Episcopal chair;
"And their vestal virtue it well denotes
"That they all, good men, wear petticoats."

Thus saying, post-haste to earth he hurries,
And knocks at the Archbishop of Canterbury's.
The door was oped by a lackey in lace,
Saying, "What's your business with his Grace?"
"His Grace!" quoth Jerome--for posed was he,
Not knowing what _sort_ this Grace could be;
Whether Grace _preventing_, Grace _particular_,
Grace of that breed called _Quinquarticular_--[1]

In short he rummaged his holy mind
The exact description of Grace to find,
Which thus could represented be
By a footman in full livery.
At last, out loud in a laugh he broke,
(For dearly the good saint loved his joke)[2]
And said--surveying, as sly he spoke,
The costly palace from roof to base--
"Well, it isn't, at least, a _saving_ Grace!"
"Umph!" said the lackey, a man of few words,
"The Archbishop is gone to the House of Lords."

"To the House of the Lord, you mean, my son,
"For in _my_ time at least there was but one;
Unless such many-_fold_ priests as these
"Seek, even in their LORD, pluralities!"[3]
"No time for gab," quoth the man in lace:
Then slamming the door in St. Jerome's face
With a curse to the single knockers all
Went to finish his port in the servants' hall,
And propose a toast (humanely meant
To include even Curates in its extent)
"To all as _serves_ the Establishment."

[1] So called from the proceedings of the Synod of Dort.

[2] Witness his well known pun on the name of his adversary Vigilantius,
whom he calls facetiously Dormitantius.

[3] The suspicion attached to some of the early Fathers of being Arians in
their doctrine would appear to derive some confirmation, from this



"This much I dare say, that, since _lording_ and loitering hath
come up, preaching hath come down, contrary to the Apostles' times.
For they preached and _lorded_ not; and now they _lord_ and
preach not.... Ever since the Prelates were made Lords and Nobles, the
plough standeth; there is no work done, people starve."
--_Latimer, "Sermon of the Plough."_

"Once more," said Jerome, "I'll run up and see
How the Church goes on,"--and off set he.
Just then the packet-boat which trades
Betwixt our planet and the shades
Had arrived below with a freight so queer,
"My eyes!" said Jerome, "what have we here?"--
For he saw, when nearer he explored,
They'd a cargo of Bishops' wigs aboard.

"They are ghosts of wigs," said Charon, "all,
"Once worn by nobs Episcopal.[1]
"For folks on earth, who've got a store
"Of cast off things they'll want no more,
"Oft send them down, as gifts, you know,
"To a certain Gentleman here below.
"A sign of the times, I plainly see,"
Said the Saint to himself as, pondering, he
Sailed off in the death-boat gallantly.

Arrived on earth, quoth he, "No more
"I'll affect a body as before;
"For I think I'd best, in the company
"Of Spiritual Lords, a spirit be,
"And glide unseen from See to See."
But oh! to tell what scenes he saw,--
It was more than Rabelais's pen could draw.
For instance, he found Exeter,
Soul, body, inkstand, all in a stir,--
For love of God? for sake of King?
For good of people?--no such thing;
But to get for himself, by some new trick,
A shove to a better bishoprick.

He found that pious soul, Van Mildert,
Much with his money-bags bewildered;
Snubbing the Clerks of the Diocese,
Because the rogues showed restlessness
At having too little cash to touch,
While he so Christianly bears too much.
He found old Sarum's wits as gone
As his own beloved text in John,--[2]
Text he hath prosed so long upon,
That 'tis thought when askt, at the gate of heaven,
His name, he'll answer, "John, v. 7."

"But enough of Bishops I've had to-day,"
Said the weary Saint,--"I must away.
"Tho' I own I should like before I go
"To see for once (as I'm askt below
"If really such odd sights exist)
"A regular six-fold Pluralist."
Just then he heard a general cry--
"There's Doctor Hodgson galloping by!"
"Ay, that's the man," says the Saint, "to follow,"
And off he sets with a loud view-hello,
At Hodgson's heels, to catch if he can
A glimpse of this singular plural man.
But,--talk of Sir Boyle Roche's bird![3]
To compare him with Hodgson is absurd.
"Which way, sir, pray, is the doctor gone?"--
"He is now at his living at Hillingdon."--
"No, no,--you're out, by many a mile,
"He's away at his Deanery in Carlisle."--
"Pardon me, sir; but I understand
"He's gone to his living in Cumberland."--
"God bless me, no,--he can't be there;
"You must try St. George's, Hanover Square."

Thus all in vain the Saint inquired,
From living to living, mockt and tired;--
'Twas Hodgson here, 'twas Hodgson there,
'Twas Hodgson nowhere, everywhere;
Till fairly beat the Saint gave o'er
And flitted away to the Stygian shore,
To astonish the natives underground
With the comical things he on earth had found.

[1] The wig, which had so long formed an essential part of the dress of an
English bishop, was at this time beginning to be dispensed with.

[2] 1 John v. 7. A text which, though long given up by all the rest of the
orthodox world, is still pertinaciously adhered to by this Right Reverend

[3] It was a saying of the well-known Sir Boyle, that "a man could not be
in two places at once, unless he was a bird."




What a pleasing contrivance! how aptly devised
'Twixt tar and magnolias to puzzle one's noses!
And how the tar-barrels must all be surprised
To find themselves seated like "Love among roses!"

What a pity we can't, by precautions like these,
Clear the air of that other still viler infection;
That radical pest, that old whiggish disease,
Of which cases, true-blue, are in every direction.

Stead of barrels, let's light up an _Auto da Fe_
Of a few good combustible Lords of "the Club;"
They would fume in a trice, the Whig cholera away,
And there's Bucky would burn like a barrel of bub.

How Roden would blaze! and what rubbish throw out!
A volcano of nonsense in active display;
While Vane, as a butt, amidst laughter, would spout
The hot nothings he's full of, all night and all day.

And then, for a finish, there's Cumberland's Duke,--
Good Lord, how his chin-tuft would crackle in air!
Unless (as is shrewdly surmised from his look)
He's already bespoke for combustion elsewhere.

[1] The Marquis of Hertford's Fete.--From dread of cholera his Lordship
had ordered tar-barrels to be burned in every direction.


"When they _do_ agree, their unanimity is
wonderful. _The Critic_.


_Scene discovers Dr. Whig and Dr. Tory in consultation. Patient on the
floor between them_.

_Dr. Whig_.--This wild Irish patient _does_ pester me so.
That what to do with him, I'm curst if I know.
I've _promist_ him anodynes--
_Dr. Tory_. Anodynes!--Stuff.
Tie him down--gag him well--he'll be tranquil enough.
That's _my_ mode of practice.
_Dr Whig_. True, quite in _your_ line,
But unluckily not much, till lately, in _mine_.
'Tis so painful--
_Dr. Tory_.--Pooh, nonsense--ask Ude how he feels,
When, for Epicure feasts, he prepares his live eels,
By flinging them in, 'twixt the bars of the fire,
And letting them wriggle on there till they tire.
_He_, too, says "'tis painful"--"quite makes his heart bleed"--
But "Your eels are a vile, oleaginous breed."--
He would fain use them gently, but Cookery says "No,"
And--in short--eels were _born_ to be treated just so.[2]
'Tis the same with these Irish,--who're odder fish still,--
Your tender Whig heart shrinks from using them ill;
I myself in my youth, ere I came to get wise,
Used at some operations to blush to the eyes:--
But, in fact, my dear brother,--if I may make bold
To style you, as Peachum did Lockit, of old,--
We, Doctors, _must_ act with the firmness of Ude,
And, indifferent like him,--so the fish is _but_ stewed,--
_Must_ torture live Pats for the general good.
[_Here patient groans and kicks a little_.]
_Dr. Whig_.--But what, if one's patient's so devilish perverse,
That he _won't_ be thus tortured?
_Dr. Tory_. Coerce, sir, coerce.
You're a juvenile performer, but once you begin,
You can't think how fast you may train your hand in:
And (_smiling_) who knows but old Tory may take to the shelf,
With the comforting thought that, in place and in pelf,
He's succeeded by one just as--bad as himself?
_Dr. Whig_ (_looking flattered_).--
Why, to tell you the truth, I've a small matter here,
Which you helped me to make for my patient last year,--
[_Goes to a cupboard and brings out a strait-waistcoat
and gag_.]
And such rest I've enjoyed from his raving since then
That I've made up my mind he shall wear it again.
_Dr. Tory_ (_embracing him_).--
Oh, charming!---My dear Doctor Whig, you're a treasure,
Next to torturing, _myself_, to help _you_ is a pleasure.
[_Assisting Dr. Whig_.]
Give me leave--I've some practice in these mad machines;
There--tighter--the gag in the mouth, by all means.
Delightful!--all's snug--not a squeak need you fear,--
You may now put your anodynes off till next year.
[_Scene closes_.]

[1] These verses, as well as some others that follow, were extorted from
me by that lamentable measure of the Whig ministry, the Irish Coercion

[2] This eminent artist, in the second edition of the work wherein he
propounds this mode of purifying his eels, professes himself much
concerned at the charge of inhumanity brought against his practice, but
still begs leave respectfully to repeat that it _is_ the only proper
mode of preparing eels for the table.





Sweet singer of Romaldkirk, thou who art reckoned,
By critics Episcopal, David the Second,[1]
If thus, as a Curate, so lofty your flight,
Only think, in a Rectory, how you _would_ write!
Once fairly inspired by the "Tithe-crowned Apollo,"
(Who beats, I confess it, our lay Phoebus hollow,
Having gotten, besides the old _Nine's_ inspiration,
The _Tenth_ of all eatable things in creation.)
There's nothing in fact that a poet like you,
So be-_nined_ and be-_tenthed_, couldn't easily do.

Round the lips of the sweet-tongued Athenian[2] they say,
While yet but a babe in his cradle he lay,
Wild honey-bees swarmed as presage to tell
Of the sweet-flowing words that thence afterwards fell.
Just so round our Overton's cradle, no doubt,
Tenth ducklings and chicks were seen flitting about;
Goose embryos, waiting their doomed decimation,
Came, shadowing forth his adult destination,
And small, sucking tithe-pigs, in musical droves,
Announced the Church poet whom Chester approves.
O Horace! when thou, in thy vision of yore,
Didst dream that a snowy-white plumage came o'er
Thy etherealized limbs, stealing downily on,
Till, by Fancy's strong spell, thou wert turned to a swan,
Little thought'st thou such fate could a poet befall,
Without any effort of fancy, at all;
Little thought'st thou the world would in Overton find
A bird, ready-made, somewhat different in kind,
But as perfect as Michaelmas' self could produce,
By gods yclept _anser_, by mortals a _goose_.

[1] "Your Lordship," says Mr. Overton, in the Dedication of his Poem to
the Bishop of Chester," has kindly expressed your persuasion that my Muse
will always be a 'Muse of sacred song and that it will be tuned as David's

[2] Sophocles.


[Boy discovered at a table, with the Thirty-Nine Articles before him.--
Enter the Rt. Rev. Doctor Phillpots.]

_Doctor P_.--There, my lad, lie the
Articles--(_Boy begins to count them_) just thirty nine--
No occasion to count--you've now only to sign.
At Cambridge where folks are less High-church than we,
The whole Nine-and-Thirty are lumped into Three.
Let's run o'er the items;--there 'a Justification,
Predestination, and Supererogation--
Not forgetting Salvation and Creed Athanasian,
Till we reach, at last, Queen Bess's Ratification.
That is sufficient--now, sign--having read quite enough,
You "believe in the full and true meaning thereof?"

(_Boy stares_.)

Oh! a mere form of words, to make things smooth and brief,--
A commodious and short make-believe of belief,
Which our Church has drawn up in a form thus articular
To keep out in general all who're particular.
But what's the boy doing? what! reading all thro',
And my luncheon fast cooling!--this never will do.
_Boy_ (_poring over the Articles_).--
Here are points which--pray, Doctor, what's "Grace of Congruity?"
_Doctor P._ (_sharply_).--You'll find out, young sir, when
you've more ingenuity.
At present, by signing, you pledge yourself merely.
Whate'er it may be, to believe it sincerely,
Both in _dining_ and _signing_ we take the same plan,--
First, swallow all down, then digest--as we can.
_Boy_ (_still reading_).--I've to gulp, I see, St. Athanasius's
Which. I'm told, is a very tough morsel indeed;
As he damns--

_Doctor P. (aside)_.--Ay, and so would _I_, willingly, too,
All confounded particular young boobies, like you.
This comes of Reforming!--all's o'er with our land,
When people won't stand what they can't _under_-stand;
Nor perceive that our ever-revered Thirty-Nine
Were made not for men to _believe_ but to _sign_.
_Exit Dr. P. in a passion_.

[1] It appears that when a youth of fifteen went to be matriculated at
Oxford, he was required first to subscribe the Thirty-Nine Articles of
Religious Belief.


_"sic vos non vobis."_


"The Vicar of Birmingham desires me to state that, in consequence of
the passing of a recent Act of Parliament, he is compelled to adopt
measures which may by some be considered harsh or precipitate; but,
_in duty to what he owes to his successors_, he feels bound to
preserve the rights of the vicarage."
--_Letter from Mr. S. Powell_, August 6.

No, _not_ for yourselves, ye reverend men,
Do you take one pig in every ten,
But for Holy Church's future heirs,
Who've an abstract right to that pig, as theirs;
The law supposing that such heirs male
Are already seized of the pig, in tail.
No, _not_ for himself hath Birmingham's priest
His "well-beloved" of their pennies fleeced:
But it is that, before his prescient eyes,
All future Vicars of Birmingham rise,
With their embryo daughters, nephews, nieces,
And 'tis for _them_ the poor he fleeces.
He heareth their voices, ages hence
Saying, "Take the pig"--"oh take the pence;"
The cries of little Vicarial dears,
The unborn Birminghamites, reach his ears;
And, did he resist that soft appeal,
He would _not_ like a true-born Vicar feel.
Thou, too, Lundy of Lackington!
A rector true, if e'er there was one,
Who, for sake of the Lundies of coming ages,
Gripest the tenths of laborer's wages.[1]
'Tis true, in the pockets of _thy_ small-clothes
The claimed "obvention"[2]of four-pence goes;
But its abstract spirit, unconfined,
Spreads to all future Rector-kind,
Warning them all to their rights to wake,
And rather to face the block, the stake,
Than give up their darling right _to take_.

One grain of musk, it is said, perfumes
(So subtle its spirit) a thousand rooms,
And a single four-pence, pocketed well,
Thro' a thousand rectors' lives will tell.
Then still continue, ye reverend souls,
And still as your rich Pactolus rolls,
Grasp every penny on every side,
From every wretch, to swell its tide:
Remembering still what the Law lays down,
In that pure poetic style of its own.
"If the parson _in esse_ submits to loss, he
"Inflicts the same on the parson _in posse_."

[1] Fourteen agricultural laborers (one of whom received so little as six
guineas for yearly wages, one eight, one nine, another ten guineas, and
the best paid of the whole not more than 18_l_. annually) were all, in the
course of the autumn of 1832, served with demands of tithe at the rate of
4_d_. in the 1_l_. sterling, on behalf of the Rev. F. Lundy, Rector of
Lackington, etc.--_The Times_, August, 1833.

[2] One of the various general terms under which oblations, tithes, etc.,
are comprised.



I have been, like Puck, I have been, in a trice,
To a realm they call Fool's Paradise,
Lying N.N.E. of the Land of Sense,
And seldom blest with a glimmer thence.
But they wanted not in this happy place,
Where a light of its own gilds every face;
Or if some wear a shadowy brow,
'Tis the _wish_ to look wise,--not knowing _how_.
Self-glory glistens o'er all that's there,
The trees, the flowers have a jaunty air;
The well-bred wind in a whisper blows,
The snow, if it snows, is _couleur de rose_,
The falling founts in a titter fall,
And the sun looks simpering down on all.

Oh, 'tisn't in tongue or pen to trace
The scenes I saw in that joyous place.
There were Lords and Ladies sitting together,
In converse sweet, "What charming weather!--
"You'll all rejoice to hear, I'm sure,
"Lord Charles has got a good sinecure;
"And the Premier says, my youngest brother
"(Him in the Guards) shall have another.

"Isn't this very, _very_ gallant!--
"As for my poor old virgin aunt,
"Who has lost her all, poor thing, at whist,
"We must quarter _her_ on the Pension List."
Thus smoothly time in that Eden rolled;
It seemed like an Age of _real_ gold,
Where all who liked might have a slice,
So rich was that Fools' Paradise.

But the sport at which most time they spent,
Was a puppet-show, called Parliament
Performed by wooden Ciceros,
As large as life, who rose to prose,
While, hid behind them, lords and squires,
Who owned the puppets, pulled the wires;
And thought it the very best device
Of that most prosperous Paradise,
To make the vulgar pay thro' the nose
For them and their wooden Ciceros.

And many more such things I saw
In this Eden of Church and State and Law;
Nor e'er were known such pleasant folk
As those who had the _best_ of the joke.
There were Irish Rectors, such as resort
To Cheltenham yearly, to drink--port,
And bumper, "Long may the Church endure,
"May her cure of souls be a sinecure,
"And a score of Parsons to every soul
"A moderate allowance on the whole."
There were Heads of Colleges lying about,
From which the sense had all run out,
Even to the lowest classic lees,
Till nothing was left but _quantities_;
Which made them heads most fit to be
Stuck up on a University,
Which yearly hatches, in its schools,
Such flights of young Elysian fools.
Thus all went on, so snug and nice,
In this happiest possible Paradise.

But plain it was to see, alas!
That a downfall soon must come to pass.
For grief is a lot the good and wise
Don't quite so much monopolize,
But that ("lapt in Elysium" as they are)
Even blessed fools must have their share.
And so it happened:--but what befell,
In Dream the Second I mean to tell.



"I trust we shall part as we met, in peace and charity. My last
payment to you paid your salary up to the 1st of this month. Since
that, I owe you for one month, which, being a long month, of
thirty-one days, amounts, as near as I can calculate, to six pounds
eight shillings. My steward returns you as a debtor to the amount of
trifling balance in my favor."--_Letter of Dismissal from the Rev.
Marcus Beresford to his Curate, the Rev. T. A. Lyons_.

The account is balanced--the bill drawn out,--
The debit and credit all right, no doubt--
The Rector rolling in wealth and state,
Owes to his Curate six pound eight;
The Curate, that _least_ well-fed of men,
Owes to his Rector seven pound ten,
Which maketh the balance clearly due
From Curate to Rector, one pound two.

Ah balance, on earth unfair, uneven!
But sure to be all set right in heaven,
Where bills like these will be checkt, some day,
And the balance settled the other way:
Where Lyons the curate's hard-wrung sum
Will back to his shade with interest come;
And Marcus, the rector, deep may rue
This tot, in his favor, of one pound two.



About fifty years since, in the days of our daddies,
That plan was commenced which the wise now applaud,
Of shipping off Ireland's most turbulent Paddies,
As good raw material for _settlers_, abroad.
Some West-India island, whose name I forget,
Was the region then chosen for this scheme so romantic;
And such the success the first colony met,
That a second, soon after, set sail o'er the Atlantic.

Behold them now safe at the long-lookt-for shore,
Sailing in between banks that the Shannon might greet,
And thinking of friends whom, but two years before,
They had sorrowed to lose, but would soon again meet.

And, hark! from the shore a glad welcome there came--
"Arrah, Paddy from Cork, is it you, my sweet boy?"
While Pat stood astounded, to hear his own name
Thus hailed by black devils, who capered for joy!

Can it possibly be?--half amazement--half doubt,
Pat listens again--rubs his eyes and looks steady;
Then heaves a deep sigh, and in horror yells out,
"Good Lord! only think,--black and curly already!"

Deceived by that well-mimickt brogue in his ears,
Pat read his own doom in these wool-headed figures,
And thought, what a climate, in less than two years,
To turn a whole cargo of Pats into niggers!


'Tis thus,--but alas! by a marvel more true
Than is told in this rival of Ovid's best stories,--
Your Whigs, when in office a short year or two,
By a _lusus naturae_, all turn into Tories.

And thus, when I hear them "strong measures" advise,
Ere the seats that they sit on have time to get steady,
I say, while I listen, with tears in my eyes,
"Good Lord! only think,--black and curly already!"




Fine figures of speech let your orators follow,
Old Cocker has figures that beat them all hollow.
Tho' famed for his rules _Aristotle_ may be,
In but _half_ of this Sage any merit I see,
For, as honest Joe Hume says, the "_tottle_" for me!

For instance, while others discuss and debate,
It is thus about Bishops _I_ ratiocinate.

In England, where, spite of the infidel's laughter,
'Tis certain our souls are lookt _very_ well after,
Two Bishops can well (if judiciously sundered)
Of parishes manage two thousand two hundred.--
Said number of parishes, under said teachers,
Containing three millions of Protestant creatures,--
So that each of said Bishops full ably controls
One million and five hundred thousands of souls.

And now comes old Cocker. In Ireland we're told,
_Half_ a million includes the whole Protestant fold;
If, therefore, for three million souls, 'tis conceded
_Two_ proper-sized Bishops are all that is needed,
'Tis plain, for the Irish _half_ million who want 'em,
_One-third_ of _one_ Bishop is just the right quantum.
And thus, by old Cocker's sublime Rule of Three,
The Irish Church question's resolved to a T;
Keeping always that excellent maxim in view,
That, in saving men's souls, we must save money too.

Nay, if--as St. Roden complains is the case--
The half million of _soul_ is decreasing apace,
The demand, too, for _bishop_ will also fall off,
Till the _tithe_ of one, taken in kind be enough.
But, as fractions imply that we'd have to dissect,
And to cutting up Bishops I strongly object.
We've a small, fractious prelate whom well we could spare,
Who has just the same decimal worth, to a hair,
And, not to leave Ireland too much in the lurch.
We'll let her have Exeter, _sole_, as her Church.



"We are persuaded that this our artificial man will not only walk and
speak and perform most of the outward functions of animal life, but
(being wound up once a week) will perhaps reason as well as most of
your country parsons."--"_Memoirs of Martinus Scriblerus_,"
chap. xii.

It being an object now to meet
With Parsons that don't want to eat,
Fit men to fill those Irish rectories,
Which soon will have but scant refectories,
It has been suggested,--lest that Church
Should all at once be left in the lurch
For want of reverend men endued
With this gift of never requiring food,--
To try, by way of experiment, whether
There couldn't be made of wood and leather,[1]
(Howe'er the notion may sound chimerical,)
Jointed figures, not _lay_,[2] but clerical,
Which, wound up carefully once a week,
Might just like parsons look and speak,
Nay even, if requisite, reason too,
As well as most Irish parsons do.

The experiment having succeeded quite,
(Whereat those Lords must much delight,
Who've shown, by stopping the Church's food,
They think it isn't for her spiritual good
To be served by parsons of flesh and blood,)
The Patentees of this new invention
Beg leave respectfully to mention,
They now are enabled to produce
An ample supply for present use,
Of these reverend pieces of machinery,
Ready for vicarage, rectory, deanery,
Or any such-like post of skill
That wood and leather are fit to fill.

N.B.--In places addicted to arson,
We can't recommend a wooden parson:
But if the Church any such appoints,
They'd better at least have iron joints.
In parts, not much by Protestants haunted,
A figure to _look at_'s all that's wanted--
A block in black, to eat and sleep,
Which (now that the eating's o'er) comes cheap.

P.S.--Should the Lords, by way of a treat,
Permit the clergy again to eat,
The Church will of course no longer need
Imitation-parsons that never feed;
And these _wood_ creatures of ours will sell
For secular purposes just as well--
Our Beresfords, turned to bludgeons stout,
May, 'stead of beating their own about,
Be knocking the brains of Papists out;
While our smooth O'Sullivans, by all means,
Should transmigrate into _turning_ machines.

[1] The materials of which those Nuremberg Savans, mentioned by
Scriblerus, constructed their artificial man.

[2] The wooden models used by painters are, it is well known, called "lay




Choose some title that's dormant--the Peerage hath many--
Lord Baron of Shamdos sounds nobly as any.
Next, catch a dead cousin of said defunct Peer,
And marry him, off hand, in some given year,
To the daughter of somebody,--no matter who,--
Fig, the grocer himself, if you're hard run, will do;
For, the Medici _pills_ still in heraldry tell,
And why shouldn't _lollypops_ quarter as well?
Thus, having your couple, and one a lord's cousin,
Young materials for peers may be had by the dozen;
And 'tis hard if, inventing each small mother's son of 'em,
You can't somehow manage to prove _yourself_ one of 'em.

Should registers, deeds and such matters refractory,
Stand in the way of this lord-manufactory,
I've merely to hint, as a secret auricular,
One _grand_ rule of enterprise,--_don't_ be particular.
A man who once takes such a jump at nobility,
Must _not_ mince the matter, like folks of nihility,
But clear thick and thin with true lordly agility.

'Tis true, to a would-be descendant from Kings,
Parish-registers sometimes are troublesome things;
As oft, when the vision is near brought about,
Some goblin, in shape of a grocer, grins out;
Or some barber, perhaps, with my Lord mingles bloods,
And one's patent of peerage is left in the suds.

But there _are_ ways--when folks are resolved to be lords--
Of expurging even troublesome parish records.
What think ye of scissors? depend on't no heir
Of a Shamdos should go unsupplied with a pair,
As whate'er _else_ the learned in such lore may invent,
Your scissors does wonders in proving descent.
Yes, poets may sing of those terrible shears
With which Atropos snips off both bumpkins and peers,
But they're naught to that weapon which shines in the hands
Of some would-be Patricians, when proudly he stands
O'er the careless churchwarden's baptismal array,
And sweeps at each cut generations away.
By some babe of old times is his peerage resisted?

One snip,--and the urchin hath _never_ existed!
Does some marriage, in days near the Flood, interfere
With his one sublime object of being a Peer?
Quick the shears at once nullify bridegroom and bride,--
No such people have ever lived, married or died!

Such the newest receipt for those high minded elves,
Who've a fancy for making great lords of themselves.
Follow this, young aspirer who pant'st for a peerage,
Take S--m for thy model and B--z for thy steerage,
Do all and much worse than old Nicholas Flam does,
And--_who_ knows but you'll be Lord Baron of Shamdos?

[1] The claim to the barony of Chandos (if I recollect right) advanced by
the late Sir Egerinton Brydges.


Air.--"A master I have, and I am his man,
Galloping dreary dun."
"_Castle of Andalusia_."

The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass.
Galloping, dreary duke;
The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass,
He's an ogre to meet, and the devil to pass,
With his charger prancing,
Grim eye glancing,
Chin, like a Mufti,
Grizzled and tufty,
Galloping, dreary Duke.

Ye misses, beware of the neighborhood
Of this galloping dreary Duke;
Avoid him, all who see no good
In being run o'er by a Prince of the Blood.
For, surely, no nymph is
Fond of a grim phiz.
And of the married,
Whole crowds have miscarried
At sight of this dreary Duke.




As 'tis now, my dear Tully, some weeks since I started
By railroad for earth, having vowed ere we parted
To drop you a line by the Dead-Letter post,
Just to say how I thrive in my new line of ghost,
And how deucedly odd this live world all appears,
To a man who's been dead now for three hundred years,
I take up my pen, and with news of this earth
Hope to waken by turns both your spleen and your mirth.

In my way to these shores, taking Italy first,
Lest the change from Elysium too sudden should burst,
I forgot not to visit those haunts where of yore
You took lessons from Paetus in cookery's lore.
Turned aside from the calls of the rostrum and Muse,
To discuss the rich merits of _rotis_ and stews,
And preferred to all honors of triumph or trophy,
A supper on prawns with that rogue, little Sophy.

Having dwelt on such classical musings awhile,
I set off by a steam-boat for this happy isle,
(A conveyance _you_ ne'er, I think, sailed by, my Tully,
And therefore, _per_ next, I'll describe it more fully,)
Having heard on the way what distresses me greatly,
That England's o'errun by _idolaters_ lately,
Stark, staring adorers of wood and of stone,
Who will let neither stick, stock or statue alone.
Such the sad news I heard from a tall man in black,
Who from sports continental was hurrying back,
To look after his tithes;--seeing, doubtless, 'twould follow,
That just as of old your great idol, Apollo,
Devoured all the Tenths, so the idols in question,
These wood and stone gods, may have equal digestion,
And the idolatrous crew whom this Rector despises,
May eat up the tithe-pig which _he_ idolizes.


'Tis all but too true--grim Idolatry reigns
In full pomp over England's lost cities and plains!
On arriving just now, as my first thought and care
Was as usual to seek out some near House of Prayer,
Some calm holy spot, fit for Christians to pray on,
I was shown to--what think you?--a downright Pantheon!

A grand, pillared temple with niches and halls,
Full of idols and gods, which they nickname St. Paul's;--
Tho' 'tis clearly the place where the idolatrous crew
Whom the Rector complained of, their dark rites pursue;
And, 'mong all the "strange gods" Abr'ham's father carved out,[1]
That he ever carv'd _stranger_ than these I much doubt.

Were it even, my dear TULLY, your Hebes and Graces,
And such pretty things, that usurpt the Saints' places,
I shouldn't much mind,--for in this classic dome
Such folks from Olympus would feel quite at home.
But the gods they've got here!--such a queer omnium gatherum
Of misbegot things that no poet would father 'em;--
Britannias in light summer-wear for the skies,--
Old Thames turned to stone, to his no small surprise,--
Father Nile, too,--a portrait, (in spite of what's said,
That no mortal e'er yet got a glimpse of his _head_,)
And a Ganges which India would think somewhat fat for't,
Unless 'twas some full-grown Director had sat for't;--
Not to mention the _et caeteras_ of Genii and Sphinxes,
Fame, Victory, and other such semi-clad minxes;--
Sea Captains,[2]--the idols here most idolized;
And of whom some, alas! might too well be comprized
Among ready-made Saints, as they died _cannonized_;
With a multitude more of odd cockneyfied deities,
Shrined in such pomp that quite shocking to see it 'tis;
Nor know I what better the Rector could do
Than to shrine there his own beloved quadruped too;
As most surely a tithe-pig, whate'er the world thinks, is
A much fitter beast for a church than a Sphinx is.

But I'm called off to dinner--grace just has been said,
And my host waits for nobody, living or dead.

[1] Joshua xxiv 2.

[2] Captains Mosse, Riou etc.


_at Paris[2] et Fratres, et qui rapure sub illis.
vix tenuere manus (scis hoc, Menelae) nefandas_.
OVID. _Metam. lib_. xiii. v. 202.

Go, Brothers in wisdom--go, bright pair of Peers,
And my Cupid and Fame fan you both with their pinions!
The _one_, the best lover we have--_of his years_,
And the other Prime Statesman of Britain's dominions.

Go, Hero of Chancery, blest with the smile
Of the Misses that love and the monarchs that prize thee;
Forget Mrs. Angelo Taylor awhile,
And all tailors but him who so well _dandifies_ thee.

Never mind how thy juniors in gallantry scoff,
Never heed how perverse affidavits may thwart thee,
But show the young Misses thou'rt scholar enough
To translate "_Amor Fortis_" a love, _about forty_!

And sure 'tis no wonder, when, fresh as young Mars,
From the battle you came, with the Orders you'd earned in't,
That sweet Lady Fanny should cry out "_My stars_!"
And forget that the _Moon_, too, was some way concerned in't.

For not the great Regent himself has endured
(Tho' I've seen him with badges and orders all shine,
Till he lookt like a house that was _over_ insured)
A much heavier burden of glories than thine.

And 'tis plain, when a wealthy young lady so mad is,
Or _any_ young ladies can so go astray,
As to marry old Dandies that might be their daddies,
The _stars_ are in fault, my Lord Stewart, not they!

Thou, too, t'other brother, thou Tully of Tories,
Thou _Malaprop_ Cicero, over whose lips
Such a smooth rigmarole about; "monarchs," and "glories,"
And "_nullidge_," and "features," like syllabub slips.

Go, haste, at the Congress pursue thy vocation
Of adding fresh sums to this National Debt of ours,
Leaguing with Kings, who for mere recreation
Break promises, fast as your Lordship breaks metaphors.

Fare ye well, fare ye well, bright Pair of Peers,
And may Cupid and Fame fan you both with their pinions!
The one, the best lover we have--_of his years_,
And the other, Prime Statesman of Britain's dominions.

[1] This and the following squib, which must have been written about the
year 1815-16, have been by some oversight misplaced.

[2] Ovid is mistaken in saying that it was "at Paris" these rapacious
transactions took place--we should read "at Vienna."


_Imitated from Horace, lib. i, ode 3_.

So may my Lady's prayers prevail,
And Canning's too, and _lucid_ Bragge's,
And Eldon beg a favoring gale
From Eolus, that _older_ Bags,
To speed thee on thy destined way,
Oh ship, that bearest our Castlereagh,
Our gracious Regent's better half
And _therefore_ quarter of a King--
(As Van or any other calf
May find without much figuring).
Waft him, oh ye kindly breezes,
Waft this Lord of place and pelf,
Any where his Lordship pleases,
Tho' 'twere to Old Nick himself!

Oh, what a face of brass was his.
Who first at Congress showed his phiz--
To sign away the Rights of Man
To Russian threats and Austrian juggle;
And leave the sinking African
To fall without one saving struggle--
'Mong ministers from North and South,
To show his lack of shame and sense,
And hoist the sign of "Bull and Mouth"
For blunders and for eloquence!

In vain we wish our _Secs_, at home
To mind their papers, desks, and shelves,
If silly _Secs_, abroad _will_ roam
And make such noodles of themselves.

But such hath always been the case--
For matchless impudence of face,
There's nothing like your Tory race!
First, Pitt, the chosen of England, taught her
A taste for famine, fire and slaughter.
Then came the Doctor, for our ease,
With Eldons, Chathams, Hawksburies,
And other deadly maladies.
When each in turn had run their rigs,
Necessity brought in the Whigs:

And oh! I blush, I blush to say,
When these, in turn, were put to flight, too,
Illustrious TEMPLE flew away
With _lots of pens he had no right to_.[1]
In short, what _will_ not mortal man do?
And now, that--strife and bloodshed past--
We've done on earth what harm we can do,
We gravely take to heaven at last
And think its favoring smile to purchase
(Oh Lord, good Lord!) by--building churches!

[1] This alludes to the 1200_l_. worth of stationery, which his Lordship
is said to have ordered, when on the point of _vacating_ his place.


"And now," quoth the goddess, in accents jocose,
"Having got good materials, I'll brew such a dose
"Of Double X mischief as, mortals shall say,
"They've not known its equal for many a long day."
Here she winkt to her subaltern imps to be steady,
And all wagged their fire-tipt tails and stood ready.

"So, now for the ingredients:--first, hand me that bishop;"
Whereupon, a whole bevy of imps run to fish up
From out a large reservoir wherein they pen 'em
The blackest of all its black dabblers in venom;
And wrapping him up (lest the virus should ooze,
And one "drop of the immortal"[1] Right Rev.[2] they might lose)
In the sheets of his own speeches, charges, reviews,
Pop him into the caldron, while loudly a burst
From the by-standers welcomes ingredient the first!

"Now fetch the Ex-Chancellor," muttered the dame--
"He who's called after Harry the Older, by name."
"The Ex-Chancellor!" echoed her imps, the whole crew of 'em--
"Why talk of _one_ Ex, when your Mischief has _two_ of 'em?"
"True, true," said the hag, looking arch at her elves,
"And a double-_Ex_ dose they compose, in themselves."
This joke, the sly meaning of which was seen lucidly,
Set all the devils a laughing most deucedly.
So, in went the pair, and (what none thought surprising)
Showed talents for sinking as great as for rising;
While not a grim phiz in that realm but was lighted
With joy to see spirits so twin-like united--
Or (plainly to speak) two such birds of a feather,
In one mess of venom thus spitted together.
Here a flashy imp rose--some connection, no doubt,
Of the young lord in question--and, scowling about,
"Hoped his fiery friend, Stanley, would not be left out;
"As no schoolboy unwhipt, the whole world must agree,
"Loved mischief, _pure_ mischief, more dearly than he."

But, no--the wise hag wouldn't hear of the whipster;
Not merely because, as a shrew, he eclipst her,
And nature had given him, to keep him still young,
Much tongue in his head and no head in his tongue;
But because she well knew that, for change ever ready,
He'd not even to mischief keep properly steady:
That soon even the _wrong_ side would cease to delight,
And, for want of a change, he must swerve to the _right_;
While, on _each_, so at random his missiles he threw,
That the side he attackt was most safe, of the two.--
This ingredient was therefore put by on the shelf,
There to bubble, a bitter, hot mess, by itself.
"And now," quoth the hag, as her caldron she eyed.
And the tidbits so friendlily rankling inside,
"There wants but some seasoning;--so, come, ere I stew 'em,
"By way of a relish we'll throw in John Tuam.'
"In cooking up mischief, there's no flesh or fish
"Like your meddling High Priest, to add zest to the dish."
Thus saying, she pops in the Irish Grand Lama--
Which great event ends the First Act of the Drama.

[1] To lose no drop of the immortal man.

[2] The present Bishop of Exeter.


Tho' famed was Mesmer, in his day,
Nor less so, in ours, is Dupotet,
To say nothing of all the wonders done
By that wizard, Dr. Elliotson,
When, standing as if the gods to invoke, he
Up waves his arm, and--down drops Okey![1]
Tho' strange these things, to mind and sense,
If you wish still stranger things to see--
If you wish to know the power immense
Of the true magnetic influence,
Just go to her Majesty's Treasury,
And learn the wonders working there--
And I'll be hanged if you don't stare!
Talk of your animal magnetists,
And that wave of the hand no soul resists,
Not all its witcheries can compete
With the friendly beckon towards Downing Street,
Which a Premier gives to one who wishes
To taste of the Treasury loaves and fishes.
It actually lifts the lucky elf,
Thus acted upon, _above_ himself;--
He jumps to a state of _clairvoyance_,

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