Chapter LI: Letter VII: Page 588 (3)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE IRISH SLAVE.[1]

1827.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He had pledged a hate unto me and mine,
He had left to the future nor hope nor choice,
But sealed that hate with a Name Divine,
And he now was dead and--I _couldn't_ rejoice!

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

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

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

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

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

January, 1827.

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

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

ODE TO FERDINAND.

1827.

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

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

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

HAT _VERSUS_ WIG.

1827.

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

--_metus omnes et inexorabile fatum
subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis
avari_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh!!!--"

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

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

[1] "_Brim_--a naughty woman."--GROSE.

[2]"_Ghost_[beneath].--Swear! "_Hamlet_.--Ha, ha! say'st thou so! Art thou there, Truepenny? Come on."

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

THE PERIWINKLES AND THE LOCUSTS.

A SALMAGUNDIAN HYMN.

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

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

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

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

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

NEW CREATION OF PEERS.

BATCH THE FIRST.

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

1827.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[1] Created Lord Farnborough.

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

SPEECH ON THE UMBRELLA QUESTION.[1]

BY LORD ELDON.

1827.

"_vos_ inumbrelles _video_."--_Ex Juvenil_.
GEORGII CANNINGII.[2]

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

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

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

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

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

No! heaven be my judge, were I dying to-day,
Ere I dropt in the grave, like a medlar that's mellow,
"For God's sake"--at that awful moment I'd say--
"For God's sake, _don't_ give Mr. Bell his umbrella."

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

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

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

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

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

BY JOHN BULL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A LATE SCENE AT SWANAGE.[1]

_regnis_ EX _sul ademptis_.--Verg. 1827.

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

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

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

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

"My dearest Lord Bags!" saith his dame, "_can_ you doubt?
"I am loath to remind you of things so unpleasant;
"But _don't_ you perceive, dear, the Church have found out
"That you're one of the people called _Ex's_, at present?"

"Ah, true--you have hit it--I _am_, indeed, one
"Of those ill-fated _Ex's_ (his Lordship replies),
"And with tears, I confess--God forgive me the pun!--
"We X's have proved ourselves _not_ to be Y's."

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

[2] The Lord Chancellor Eldon.

WO! WO![1]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[4] Of the rook species--_Corvus frugilegus_, i.e. a great consumer of corn.

TOUT POUR LA TRIPE.

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

1827.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ENIGMA.

_monstrum nulla virtute_ redemptum.

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

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

DOG-DAY REFLECTIONS.

BY A DANDY KEPT IN TOWN.

_"vox clamantis in deserto."_

1827.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[1] One of the shows of London.

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

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

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

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

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

1828.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

T. PIDCOCK

_Exeter 'Change_,

ODE TO DON MIGUEL.

Et tu, _Brute_!

1828.[1]

What! Miguel, _not_ patriotic! oh, fy!
After so much good teaching 'tis quite a _take-in_, Sir;
First schooled as you were under Metternich's eye,
And then (as young misses say) "finisht" at Windsor![2]

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

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

That Rulers should feed the same way, I've no doubt;--
Great Despots on _bouilli_ served up _à la Russe_,[3]
Your small German Princes on frogs and sour crout,
And your Viceroy of Hanover always on _goose_.

_Some_ Dons too have fancied (tho' this may be fable)
A dish rather dear, if in cooking they blunder it;--
Not content with the common _hot_ meat _on_ a table,
They're partial (eh, Mig?) to a dish of _cold under_ it![4]

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

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

The Bulls, in hysterics--the Bears just as bad--
The few men who _have_, and the many who've _not_ tick,
All shockt to find out that that promising lad,
Prince Metternich's pupil, is--_not_ patriotic!

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

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

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

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

THOUGHTS ON THE PRESENT GOVERNMENT OF IRELAND.

1828.

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

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

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

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

THE LIMBO OF LOST REPUTATIONS.

A DREAM.

"_Cio che si perde qui, là si raguna_."
ARIOSTO.

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

1828.

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

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

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

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

[1] Astolpho.

[2] Huskisson.

HOW TO WRITE BY PROXY.

_qui facit per alium facit per se_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IMITATION OF THE INFERNO OF DANTE.

_"Cosi quel fiato gli spiriti mali
Di quà, di là, di giu, di su gli mena."_

_Inferno_, canto 5.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[1] The classical term for money.

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

[3] _Not_ the charming L. E. L., and still less, Mrs. F. H., whose poetry is among the most beautiful of the present day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE CHERRIES.

A PARABLE.[1]

1838.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

STANZAS WRITTEN IN ANTICIPATION OF DEFEAT.[1]

1828.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ODE TO THE WOODS AND FORESTS.

BY ONE OF THE BOARD.

1828.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

STANZAS FROM THE BANKS OF THE SHANNON.[1]

1828.

"Take back the virgin page."
MOORE'S _Irish Melodies_.

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

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

Come--on with your spectacles, noble Lord Duke,
(Or O'Connell has _green_ ones he haply would lend you,)
Read Vesey all o'er (as you _can't_ read a book)
And improve by the lesson we bog-trotters send you;

A lesson, in large _Roman_ characters traced,
Whose awful impressions from you and your kin
Of blank-sheeted statesmen will ne'er be effaced--
Unless, 'stead of _paper_, you're mere _asses' skin_.

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

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

All blank as he was, we've returned him on hand,
Scribbled o'er with a warning to Princes and Dukes,
Whose plain, simple drift if they _won't_ understand,
Tho' carest at St. James's, they're fit for St. Luke's.