SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS.

THE INSURRECTION OF THE PAPERS.

A DREAM.

    "It would be impossible for his Royal Highness to disengage his person
    from the accumulating pile of papers that encompassed it."
    —Lord CASTLEREAGH'S Speech upon Colonel M Mahon's Appointment,
    April 14, 1812.

Last night I tost and turned in bed,
But could not sleep—at length I said,
"I'll think of Viscount Castlereagh,
"And of his speeches—that's the way."
And so it was, for instantly
I slept as sound as sound could be.
And then I dreamt—so dread a dream!
Fuseli has no such theme;
Lewis never wrote or borrowed
Any horror half so horrid!

Methought the Prince in whiskered state
Before me at his breakfast sate;
On one side lay unread Petitions,
On t'other, Hints from five Physicians!
Here tradesmen's bills,—official papers,
Notes from my Lady, drams for vapors
There plans of Saddles, tea and toast.
Death-warrants and The Morning Post.

  When lo! the Papers, one and all.
As if at some magician's call.
Began to flutter of themselves
From desk and table, floor and shelves,
And, cutting each some different capers,
Advanced, oh jacobinic papers!
As tho' they said, "Our sole design is
"To suffocate his Royal Highness!"
The Leader of this vile sedition
Was a huge Catholic Petition,
With grievances so full and heavy,
It threatened worst of all the bevy;
Then Common-Hall Addresses came
In swaggering sheets and took their aim
Right at the Regent's well-drest head,
As if determined to be read.
Next Tradesmen's bills began to fly,
And Tradesmen's bills, we know, mount high;
Nay even Death-warrants thought they'd best
Be lively too and join the rest.

  But, oh the basest of defections!
His letter about "predilections"!—
His own dear letter, void of grace,
Now flew up in its parent's face!
Shocked with this breach of filial duty,
He just could murmur "et Tu Brute?"
Then sunk, subdued upon the floor
At Fox's bust, to rise no more!

I waked—and prayed, with lifted hand,
"Oh! never may this Dream prove true;
"Tho' paper overwhelms the land,
  "Let it not crush the Sovereign, too!"

PARODY OF A CELEBRATED LETTER.[1]

At length, dearest Freddy, the moment is night
When, with Perceval's leave, I may throw my chains by;
And, as time now is precious, the first thing I do
Is to sit down and write a wise letter to you.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I meant before now to have sent you this Letter, But Yarmouth and I thought perhaps 'twould be better To wait till the Irish affairs are decided— (That is, till both Houses had prosed and divided, With all due appearance of thought and digestion)— For, tho' Hertford House had long settled the question, I thought it but decent, between me and you, That the two other Houses should settle it too.

  I need not remind you how cursedly bad
Our affairs were all looking, when Father went mad;[2]
A strait waistcoat on him and restrictions on me,
A more limited Monarchy could not well be.
I was called upon then, in that moment of puzzle.
To choose my own Minister—just as they muzzle
A playful young bear, and then mock his disaster
By bidding him choose out his own dancing-master.

  I thought the best way, as a dutiful son,
Was to do as Old Royalty's self would have done.[3]
So I sent word to say, I would keep the whole batch in,
The same chest of tools, without cleansing or patching:
For tools of this kind, like Martinus's sconce.[4]
Would loose all their beauty if purified once;
And think—only think—if our Father should find.
Upon graciously coming again to his mind,[5]
That improvement had spoiled any favorite adviser—
That Rose was grown honest, or Westmoreland wiser—
That R—d—r was, even by one twinkle, the brighter—
Or Liverpool speeches but half a pound lighter—
What a shock to his old royal heart it would be!
No!—far were such dreams of improvement from me:
And it pleased me to find, at the House, where, you know,[6]
There's such good mutton cutlets, and strong curaçoa,[7]
That the Marchioness called me a duteous old boy,
And my Yarmouth's red whiskers grew redder for joy.

  You know, my dear Freddy, how oft, if I would,
By the law of last sessions I might have done good.
I might have withheld these political noodles
From knocking their heads against hot Yankee Doodles;
I might have told Ireland I pitied her lot,
Might have soothed her with hope—but you know I did not.

And my wish is, in truth, that the best of old fellows
Should not, on recovering, have cause to be jealous,
But find that while he has been laid on the shelf
We've been all of us nearly as mad as himself.
You smile at my hopes—but the Doctors and I
Are the last that can think the King ever will die.[8]

  A new era's arrived[9]—tho' you'd hardly believe it—
And all things of course must be new to receive it.
New villas, new fêtes (which even Waithman attends)—
New saddles, new helmets, and—why not new friends?

* * * * *

I repeat it, "New Friends"—for I cannot describe
The delight I am in with this Perceval tribe.
Such capering!—Such vaporing!—Such rigor!—Such vigor!
North, South, East, and West, they have cut such a figure,
That soon they will bring the whole world round our ears,
And leave us no friends—but Old Nick and Algiers.

  When I think of the glory they've beamed on my chains,
'Tis enough quite to turn my illustrious brains.
It is true we are bankrupts in commerce and riches,
But think how we find our Allies in new breeches!
We've lost the warm hearts of the Irish, 'tis granted,
But then we've got Java, an island much wanted,
To put the last lingering few who remain,
Of the Walcheren warriors, out of their pain.
Then how Wellington fights! and how squabbles his brother!
For Papists the one and with Papists the other;
One crushing Napoleon by taking a City,
While t'other lays waste a whole Catholic Committee.
Oh deeds of renown!—shall I boggle or flinch,
With such prospects before me? by Jove, not an inch.
No—let England's affairs go to rack, if they will,
We'll look after the affairs of the Continent still;
And with nothing at home but starvation and riot,
Find Lisbon in bread and keep Sicily quiet.

  I am proud to declare I have no predilections,[10]
My heart is a sieve where some scattered affections
Are just danced about for a moment or two,
And the finer they are, the more sure to run thro';
Neither feel I resentments, nor wish there should come ill
To mortal—except (now I think on't) Beau Brummel,
Who threatened last year, in a superfine passion,
To cut me and bring the old King into fashion.
This is all I can lay to my conscience at present;
When such is my temper, so neutral, so pleasant,
So royally free from all troublesome feelings,
So little encumbered by faith in my dealings
(And that I'm consistent the world will allow,
What I was at Newmarket the same I am now).
When such are my merits (you know I hate cracking),
I hope, like the Vender of Best Patent Blacking,
"To meet with the generous and kind approbation
"Of a candid, enlightened, and liberal nation."

  By the by, ere I close this magnificent Letter,
(No man, except Pole, could have writ you a better,)
'Twould please me if those, whom I've humbugged so long[11]
With the notion (good men!) that I knew right from wrong,
Would a few of them join me—mind, only a few—
To let too much light in on me never would do;
But even Grey's brightness shan't make me afraid,
While I've Camden and Eldon to fly to for shade;
Nor will Holland's clear intellect do us much harm,
While there's Westmoreland near him to weaken the charm.
As for Moira's high spirit, if aught can subdue it.
Sure joining with Hertford and Yarmouth will do it!
Between R-d-r and Wharton let Sheridan sit,
And the fogs will soon quench even Sheridan's wit:
And against all the pure public feeling that glows
Even in Whitbread himself we've a Host in George Rose!
So in short if they wish to have Places, they may,
And I'll thank you to tell all these matters to Grey.[12]
Who, I doubt not, will write (as there's no time to lose)
By the twopenny post to tell Grenville the news;
And now, dearest Fred (tho' I've no predilection),
Believe me yours always with truest affection.

P.S. A copy of this is to Perceval going[13]
Good Lord, how St. Stephen's will ring with his crowing!

[1] Letter from his Royal Highness the Prince Regent to the Duke of York, Feb. 13, 1812.

[2] "I think it hardly necessary to call your recollection to the recent circumstances under which I assumed the authority delegated to me by Parliament.—Prince's Letter.

[3] "My sense of duty to our Royal father solely decided that choice."— Ibid.

[4] The antique shield of Martinus Scriblerus, which, upon scouring, turned out to be only an old sconce.

[5] "I waived any personal gratification, in order that his Majesty might resume, on his restoration to health, every power and prerogative," etc.— Prince's Letter.

[6] "And I have the satisfaction of knowing that such was the opinion of persons for whose judgment," etc—Ibid.

[7] The letter-writer's favorite luncheon.

[8] I certainly am the last person in the kingdom to whom it can be permitted to despair of our royal father's recovery."—Prince's Letter.

[9] "A new era is now arrived, and I cannot but reflect with satisfaction," etc.—Ibid.

[10] "I have no predilections to indulge,—no resentments to gratify."— Prince's Letter.

[11] "I cannot conclude without expressing the gratification I should feel if some of those persons with whom the early habits of my public life were formed would strengthen my hands, and constitute a part of my government"— Prince's Letter.

[12] "You are authorized to communicate these sentiments to Lord Grey, who, I have no doubt, will make them known to Lord Grenville."— Prince's Letter.

[13] "I shall send a copy of this letter immediately to Mr. Perceval."- Prince's Letter.

ANACREONTIC

TO A PLUMASSIER.

Fine and feathery artisan,
Best of Plumists (if you can
With your art so far presume)
Make for me a Prince's Plume—
Feathers soft and feathers rare,
Such as suits a Prince to wear.

  First thou downiest of men,
Seek me out a fine Pea-hen;
Such a Hen, so tall and grand,
As by Juno's side might stand,
If there were no cocks at hand.
Seek her feathers, soft as down,
Fit to shine on Prince's crown;
If thou canst not find them, stupid!
Ask the way of Prior's Cupid.

Ranging these in order due,
Pluck me next an old Cuckoo;
Emblem of the happy fates
Of easy, kind, cornuted mates.
Pluck him well—be sure you do—
Who wouldnt be an old Cuckoo,
Thus to have his plumage blest,
Beaming on a Royal crest?

  Bravo, Plumist!—now what bird
Shall we find for Plume the third?
You must get a learned Owl,
Bleakest of black-letter fowl—
Bigot bird that hates the light,[1]
Foe to all that's fair and bright.
Seize his quills, (so formed to pen
Books[2] that shun the search of men;
Books that, far from every eye,
In "sweltered venom sleeping" lie,)
Stick them in between the two,
Proud Pea-hen and Old Cuckoo.
Now you have the triple feather,
Bind the kindred stems together
With a silken tie whose hue
Once was brilliant Buff and Blue;
Sullied now—alas, how much!
Only fit for Yarmouth's touch.

  There—enough—thy task is done;
Present, worthy George's Son;
Now, beneath, in letters neat,
Write "I SERVE," and all's complete.

[1] Perceval.

[2] In allusion to "the Book" which created such a sensation at that period.

EXTRACTS

FROM THE DIARY OF A POLITICIAN.

Wednesday.

Thro' Manchester Square took a canter just now—
Met the old yellow chariot[1] and made a low bow.
This I did, of course, thinking 'twas loyal and civil,
But got such a look—oh! 'twas black as the devil!
How unlucky!—incog. he was travelling about,
And I like a noodle, must go find him out.
Mem.—when next by the old yellow chariot I ride,
To remember there is nothing princely inside.

Thursday.

At Levee to-day made another sad blunder—
What can be come over me lately, I wonder?
The Prince was as cheerful as if all his life
He had never been troubled with Friends or a Wife—
"Fine weather," says he—to which I, who must prate,
Answered, "Yes, Sir, but changeable rather, of late."
He took it, I fear, for he lookt somewhat gruff,
And handled his new pair of whiskers so rough,
That before all the courtiers I feared they'd come off,
And then, Lord, how Geramb[2] would triumphantly scoff!

Mem.—to buy for son Dicky some unguent or lotion To nourish his whiskers—sure road to promotion![3]

Saturday.

Last night a Concert—vastly gay—
Given by Lady Castlereagh.
My Lord loves music, and we know
Has "two strings always to his bow."[4]
In choosing songs, the Regent named
"Had I a heart for falsehood framed."
While gentle Hertford begged and prayed
For "Young I am and sore afraid."

[1] The incog. vehicle of the Prince.

[2] Baron Geramb, the rival of his R. H. in whiskers.

[3] England is not the only country where merit of this kind is noticed and rewarded. "I remember," says Tavernier, "to have seen one of the King of Persia's porters, whose mustaches were so long that he could tie them behind his neck, for which reason he had a double pension."

[4] A rhetorical figure used by Lord Castlereagh, in one of his speeches.

EPIGRAM.

What news to-day?—"Oh! worse and worse—
"Mac[1] is the Prince's Privy Purse!"—
The Prince's Purse! no, no, you fool,
You mean the Prince's Ridicule.

[1] Colonel M'Mahon.

KING CRACK[1] AND HIS IDOLS.

WRITTEN AFTER THE LATE NEGOTIATION FOR A NEW MINISTRY.

King Crack was the best of all possible Kings,
  (At least, so his Courtiers would swear to you gladly,)
But Crack now and then would do heterodox things,
  And at last took to worshipping Images sadly.

Some broken-down Idols, that long had been placed
  In his father's old Cabinet, pleased him so much,
That he knelt down and worshipt, tho'—such was his taste!—
  They were monstrous to look at and rotten to touch.

And these were the beautiful Gods of King Crack!—
  But his People disdaining to worship such things
Cried aloud, one and all, "Come, your Godships must pack—
  "You'll not do for us, tho' you may do for Kings."

Then trampling these images under their feet,
  They sent Crack a petition, beginning "Great Caesar!
"We're willing to worship; but only entreat
  "That you'll find us some decenter godheads than these are."

"I'll try," says King Crack—so they furnisht him models
  Of better shaped Gods but he sent them all back;
Some were chiselled too fine, some had heads stead of noddles,
  In short they were all much too godlike for Crack.

So he took to his darling old Idols again,
  And just mending their legs and new bronzing their faces,
In open defiance of Gods and of man,
  Set the monsters up grinning once more in their places.

[1] One of these antediluvian Princes, with whom Manetho and Whiston seem so intimately acquainted. If we had the Memoirs of Thoth, from which Manetho compiled his History, we should find, I dare say, that Crack was only a Regent, and that he, perhaps, succeeded Typhon, who (as Whiston says) was the last King of the Antediluvian Dynasty.

WHAT'S MY THOUGHT LIKE?

Quest. Why is a Pump like Viscount Castlereagh? Answ. Because it is a slender thing of wood, That up and down its awkward arm doth sway, And coolly spout and spout and spout away, In one weak, washy, everlasting flood!

EPIGRAM.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A CATHOLIC DELEGATE AND HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF CUMBERLAND.

Said his Highness to Ned,[1] with that grim face of his,
  "Why refuse us the Veto, dear Catholic Neddy?"
"Because, Sir," said Ned, looking full in his phiz,
  "You're forbidding enough, in all conscience, already!"

[1] Edward Byrne the head of the Delegates of the Irish Catholics.

WREATHS FOR THE MINISTERS.

AN ANACREONTIC.

Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers!
Haste thee from old Brompton's bowers—
Or, (if sweeter that abode)
From the King's well-odored Road,
Where each little nursery bud
Breathes the dust and quaffs the mud.
Hither come and gayly twine
Brightest herbs and flowers of thine
Into wreaths for those who rule us,
Those who rule and (some say) fool us—
Flora, sure, will love to please
England's Household Deities![1]

  First you must then, willy-nilly,
Fetch me many an orange lily—
Orange of the darkest dye
Irish Gifford can supply;—
Choose me out the longest sprig,
And stick it in old Eldon's wig.

  Find me next a Poppy posy,
Type of his harangues so dozy,
Garland gaudy, dull and cool,
To crown the head of Liverpool.
'Twill console his brilliant brows
For that loss of laurel boughs,
Which they suffered (what a pity!)
On the road to Paris City.

  Next, our Castlereagh to crown,
Bring me from the County Down,
Withered Shamrocks which have been
Gilded o'er to hide the green—
(Such as Headfort brought away
From Pall-Mall last Patrick's Day)[2]—
Stitch the garland thro' and thro'
With shabby threads of every hue—
And as, Goddess!—entre nous—
His Lordship loves (tho' best of men)
A little torture now and then,
Crimp the leaves, thou first of Syrens,
Crimp them with thy curling-irons.

  That's enough—away, away—
Had I leisure, I could say
How the oldest rose that grows
Must be pluckt to deck Old Rose—
How the Doctor's[3] brow should smile
Crowned with wreaths of camomile.
But time presses—to thy taste
I leave the rest, so, prithee, haste!

[1] The ancients, in like manner, crowned their Lares, or Household Gods.

[2] Certain tinsel imitations of the Shamrock which are distributed by the Servants of Carleton House every Patrick's Day.

[3] The sobriquet given to Lord Sidmouth.

EPIGRAM.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A DOWAGER AND HER MAID ON THE NIGHT OF LORD YARMOUTH'S FETE.

"I want the Court Guide," said my lady, "to look
  "If the House, Seymour Place, be at 30. or 20."—
"We've lost the Court Guide, Ma'am, but here's the Red Book.
  "Where you'll find, I dare say, Seymour Places in plenty!"

HORACE, ODE XI. LIB. II.

FREELY TRANSLATED BY THE PRINCE REGENT.[1]

Come, Yarmouth, my boy, never trouble your brains,
  About what your old crony,
  The Emperor Boney,
Is doing or brewing on Muscovy's plains;

Nor tremble, my lad, at the state of our granaries:
  Should there come famine,
  Still plenty to cram in
You always shall have, my dear Lord of the Stannaries.

Brisk let us revel, while revel we may;
For the gay bloom of fifty soon passes away,
  And then people get fat,
  And infirm, and—all that,
And a wig (I confess it) so clumsily sits,
That it frightens the little Loves out of their wits;

Thy whiskers, too, Yarmouth!—alas, even they,
  Tho' so rosy they burn,
  Too quickly must turn
(What a heart-breaking change for thy whiskers!) to Grey.

Then why, my Lord Warden, oh! why should you fidget
  Your mind about matters you dont understand?
Or why should you write yourself down for an idiot,
  Because "you," forsooth, "have the pen in your hand!"

  Think, think how much better
  Than scribbling a letter,
  (Which both you and I
  Should avoid by the by,)
How much pleasanter 'tis to sit under the bust
  Of old Charley,[2] my friend here, and drink like a new one;

While Charley looks sulky and frowns at me, just
  As the Ghost in the Pantomime frowns at Don Juan.
  To Crown us, Lord Warden,
  In Cumberland's garden
Grows plenty of monk's hood in venomous sprigs:
  While Otto of Roses
  Refreshing all noses
Shall sweetly exhale from our
    whiskers and wigs.

What youth of the Household will cool our Noyau
  In that streamlet delicious,
  That down midst the dishes,
  All full of gold fishes,
  Romantic doth flow?—
  Or who will repair
Unto Manchester Square,
And see if the gentle Marchesa be there?

  Go—bid her haste hither,
  And let her bring with her
The newest No-Popery Sermon that's going—
Oh! let her come, with her dark tresses flowing,
All gentle and juvenile, curly and gay,
In the manner of—Ackerman's Dresses for May!

[1] This and the following are extracted from a Work, which may, some time or other, meet the eye of the Public—entitled "Odes of Horace, done into English by several Persons of Fashion."

[2] Charles Fox.

HORACE, ODE XXII. LIB. I.

FREELY TRANSLATED BY LORD ELDON.

The man who keeps a conscience pure,
  (If not his own, at least his Prince's,)
Thro' toil and danger walks secure,
  Looks big and black and never winces.

No want has he of sword or dagger,
  Cockt hat or ringlets of Geramb;
Tho' Peers may laugh and Papists swagger,
  He doesnt care one single damn.

Whether midst Irish chairmen going.
  Or thro' St. Giles's alleys dim,
Mid drunken Sheelahs, blasting, blowing,
  No matter, 'tis all one to him.

For instance, I, one evening late,
  Upon a gay vacation sally,
Singing the praise of Church and State,
  Got (God knows how) to Cranbourne Alley.

When lo! an Irish Papist darted
  Across my path, gaunt, grim, and big—
I did but frown and off he started,
  Scared at me even without my wig.

Yet a more fierce and raw-boned dog
  Goes not to Mass in Dublin City,
Nor shakes his brogue o'er Allen's Bog,
  Nor spouts in Catholic Committee.

Oh! place me midst O'Rourkes, O'Tooles,
  The ragged royal-blood of Tara;
Or place me where Dick Martin rules
  The houseless wilds of Connemara;[1]

Of Church and State I'll warble still,
  Though even Dick Martin's self should grumble;
Sweet Church and State, like Jack and Jill,
So lovingly upon a hill—
  Ah! ne'er like Jack and Jill to tumble![2]

[1] I must here remark, that the said Dick Martin being a very good fellow, it was not at all fair to make a "malus Jupiter" of him.

[2] There cannot be imagined a more happy illustration of the inseparability of Church and State, and their (what is called) "standing and falling together," than this ancient apologue of Jack and Jill. Jack, of course, represents the State in this ingenious little Allegory.

    Jack fell down,
    And broke his Crown,
  And Jill came tumbling after.

THE NEW COSTUME OF THE MINISTERS.

    —nova monstra creavit.
    OVID. "Metamorph." 1. i. v. 417.

Having sent off the troops of brave Major Camac,
With a swinging horse-tail at each valorous back.
And such helmets, God bless us! as never deckt any
Male creature before, except Signor Giovanni—
"Let's see," said the Regent (like Titus, perplext
With the duties of empire,) "whom shall I dress next?"

  He looks in the glass—but perfection is there,
Wig, whiskers, and chin-tufts all right to a hair;[1]
Not a single ex-curl on his forehead he traces—
For curls are like Ministers, strange as the case is,
The falser they are, the more firm in their places.
His coat he next views—but the coat who could doubt?
For his Yarmouth's own Frenchified hand cut it out;
Every pucker and seam were made matters of state,
And a Grand Household Council was held on each plait.

  Then whom shall he dress? shall he new-rig his brother,
Great Cumberland's Duke, with some kickshaw or other?
And kindly invent him more Christianlike shapes
For his feather-bed neckcloths and pillory capes.
Ah! no—here his ardor would meet with delays,
For the Duke had been lately packt up in new Stays,
So complete for the winter, he saw very plain
'Twould be devilish hard work to _un_pack him again.

  So what's to be done?—there's the Ministers, bless 'em!—
As he made the puppets, why shouldnt he dress 'em?
"An excellent thought!—call the tailors—be nimble—
"Let Cum bring his spy-glass, and Hertford her thimble;
"While Yarmouth shall give us, in spite of all quizzers,
"The last Paris cut with his true Gallic scissors."

  So saying, he calls Castlereagh and the rest
Of his heaven-born statesmen, to come and be drest.
While Yarmouth, with snip-like and brisk expedition,
Cuts up all at once a large Catholic Petition
In long tailors' measures, (the Prince crying "Well-done!")
And first puts in hand my Lord Chancellor Eldon.

[1] That model of Princes, the Emperor Commodus, was particularly luxurious in the dressing and ornamenting of his hair. His conscience, however, would not suffer him to trust himself with a barber, and he used, accordingly, to burn off his beard.

CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN A LADY AND GENTLEMAN,

UPON THE ADVANTAGE OF (WHAT IS CALLED) "HAVING LAW[1] ON ONE'S SIDE."

The Gentleman's Proposal.

      Legge aurea,
    S'ei piace, ei lice."

Come fly to these arms nor let beauties so bloomy
  To one frigid owner be tied;
Your prudes may revile and your old ones look gloomy,
  But, dearest, we've Law on our side.

Oh! think the delight of two lovers congenial,
  Whom no dull decorums divide;
Their error how sweet and their raptures how venial,
  When once they've got Law on their side.

'Tis a thing that in every King's reign has been done too:
  Then why should it now be decried?
If the Father has done it why shouldnt the Son too?
  For so argues Law on our side.

And even should our sweet violation of duty
  By cold-blooded jurors be tried,
They can but bring it in "misfortune," my beauty,
  As long as we've Law on our side.

The Lady's Answer.

Hold, hold, my good Sir, go a little more slowly;
  For grant me so faithless a bride,
Such sinners as we, are a little too lovely,
  To hope to have Law on our side.

Had you been a great Prince, to whose star shining o'er 'em
  The People should look for their guide,
Then your Highness (and welcome!) might kick down decorum—
  You'd always have Law on your side.

Were you even an old Marquis, in mischief grown hoary,
  Whose heart tho' it long ago died
To the pleasures of vice, is alive to its glory—
  You still would have Law on your side.

But for you, Sir, Crim. Con. is a path full of troubles;
  By my advice therefore abide,
And leave the pursuit to those Princes and Nobles
  Who have such a Law on their side.

[1] In allusion to Lord Ellenborough.

OCCASIONAL ADDRESS

FOR THE OPENING OF THE NEW THEATRE OF ST. STEPHEN,

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN BY THE PROPRIETOR IN FULL COSTUME, ON THE 24TH OF NOVEMBER, 1812.

This day a New House for your edification
We open, most thinking and right-headed nation!
Excuse the materials—tho' rotten and bad,
They're the best that for money just now could be had;
And if echo the charm of such houses should be,
You will find it shall echo my speech to a T.

  As for actors, we've got the old Company yet,
The same motley, odd, tragicomical set;
And considering they all were but clerks t'other day,
It is truly surprising how well they can play.
Our Manager,[1] (he who in Ulster was nurst,
And sung Erin go Bragh for the galleries first,
But on finding Pitt-interest a much better thing,
Changed his note of a sudden to God save the King,)
Still wise as he's blooming and fat as he's clever,
Himself and his speeches as lengthy as ever.
Here offers you still the full use of his breath,
Your devoted and long-winded proser till death.

  You remember last season, when things went perverse on.
We had to engage (as a block to rehearse on)
One Mr. Vansittart, a good sort of person,
Who's also employed for this season to play,
In "Raising the Wind," and "the Devil to Pay."[2]
We expect too—at least we've been plotting and planning—
To get that great actor from Liverpool, Canning;
And, as at the Circus there's nothing attracts
Like a good single combat brought in 'twixt the acts,
If the Manager should, with the help of Sir Popham,
Get up new diversions and Canning should stop 'em,
Who knows but we'll have to announce in the papers,
"Grand fight—second time—with additional capers."

  Be your taste for the ludicrous, humdrum, or sad,
There is plenty of each in this House to be had.
Where our Manager ruleth, there weeping will be,
For a dead hand at tragedy always was he;
And there never was dealer in dagger and cup,
Who so smilingly got all his tragedies up.
His powers poor Ireland will never forget,
And the widows of Walcheren weep o'er them yet.

  So much for the actors;—for secret machinery,
Traps, and deceptions, and shifting of scenery,
Yarmouth and Cum are the best we can find,
To transact all that trickery business behind.
The former's employed too to teach us French jigs,
Keep the whiskers in curl and look after the wigs.

  In taking my leave now, I've only to say,
A few Seats in the House, not as yet sold away,
May be had of the Manager, Pat Castlereagh.

[1] Lord Castlereagh.

[2] He had recently been appointed Chancellor of the Exchequer.

THE SALE OF THE TOOLS.

Instrumenta regni.—TACITUS.

Here's a choice set of Tools for you, Ge'mmen and Ladies,
They'll fit you quite handy, whatever your trade is;
(Except it be Cabinet-making;—no doubt,
In that delicate service they're rather worn out;
Tho' their owner, bright youth! if he'd had his own will,
Would have bungled away with them joyously still.)
You see they've been pretty well hackt—and alack!
What tool is there job after job will not hack?
Their edge is but dullish it must be confest,
And their temper, like Ellenborough's, none of the best;
But you'll find them good hardworking Tools, upon trying,
Were't but for their brass they are well worth the buying;
They're famous for making blinds, sliders, and screens,
And are some of them excellent turning machines.

  The first Tool I'll put up (they call it a Chancellor),
Heavy concern to both purchaser and seller.
Tho' made of pig iron yet worthy of note 'tis,
'Tis ready to melt at a half minute's notice.[1]
Who bids? Gentle buyer! 'twill turn as thou shapest;
'Twill make a good thumb-screw to torture a Papist;
Or else a cramp-iron to stick in the wall
Of some church that old women are fearful will fall;
Or better, perhaps, (for I'm guessing at random,)
A heavy drag-chain for some Lawyer's old Tandem.
Will nobody bid? It is cheap, I am sure, Sir—
Once, twice,—going, going,—thrice, gone!—it is yours, Sir.
To pay ready money you sha'n't be distrest,
As a bill at long date suits the Chancellor best.

  Come, where's the next Tool?—
Oh! 'tis here in a trice—
This implement, Ge'mmen, at first was a Vice;
(A tenacious and close sort of tool that will let
Nothing out of its grasp it once happens to get;)
But it since has received a new coating of Tin,
Bright enough for a Prince to behold himself in.
Come, what shall we say for it? briskly! bid on,
We'll the sooner get rid of it—going—quite gone.
God be with it, such tools, if not quickly knockt down,
Might at last cost their owner—how much? why, a Crown!

  The next Tool I'll set up has hardly had handsel or
Trial as yet and is also a Chancellor—
Such dull things as these should be sold by the gross;
Yet, dull as it is, 'twill be found to shave close,
And like other close shavers, some courage to gather,
This blade first began by a flourish on leather.[2]
You shall have it for nothing—then, marvel with me
At the terrible tinkering work there must be,
Where a Tool such as this is (I'll leave you to judge it)
Is placed by ill luck at the top of the Budget!

[1] An allusion to Lord Eldon's lachrymose tendencies.

[2] Of the taxes proposed by Mr. Vansittart, that principally opposed in Parliament was the additional duty on leather."—Ann. Register.

LITTLE MAN AND LITTLE SOUL.

A BALLAD.

To the tune of "There was a little man, and he wooed a little maid."

DEDICATED TO THE RT. HON. CHARLES ABBOT.

arcades ambo et cantare pares

1813.

There was a little Man and he had a little Soul,
And he said, "Little Soul, let us try, try, try.
  "Whether it's within our reach
  "To make up a little Speech,
"Just between little you and little I, I, I,
  "Just between little you and little I!"

  Then said his little Soul,
    Peeping from her little hole,
"I protest, little Man, you are stout, stout, stout,
    "But, if it's not uncivil,
    "Pray tell me what the devil,
"Must our little, little speech be about, bout, bout,
  "Must our little, little speech be about?"

    The little Man lookt big,
    With the assistance of his wig,
And he called his little Soul to order, order, order,
    Till she feared he'd make her jog in
    To jail, like Thomas Croggan,
(As she wasn't Duke or Earl) to reward her, ward her, ward her,
  As she wasn't Duke or Earl, to reward her.

    The little Man then spoke,
    "Little Soul, it is no joke,
"For as sure as Jacky Fuller loves a sup, sup, sup,
    "I will tell the Prince and People
    "What I think of Church and Steeple.
"And my little patent plan to prop them up, up, up,
  "And my little patent plan to prop them up."

    Away then, cheek by jowl,
    Little Man and little Soul
Went and spoke their little speech to a tittle, tittle, tittle,
    And the world all declare
    That this priggish little pair
Never yet in all their lives lookt so little, little, little.
  Never yet in all their lives lookt so little!

REINFORCEMENTS FOR LORD WELLINGTON.

suosque tibi commendat, Troja Penates hos cape fatorum comites. VERGIL.

1813.

As recruits in these times are not easily got
And the Marshal must have them—pray, why should we not,
As the last and, I grant it, the worst of our loans to him,
Ship off the Ministry, body and bones to him?
There's not in all England, I'd venture to swear,
Any men we could half so conveniently spare;
And tho' they've been helping the French for years past,
We may thus make them useful to England at last.
Castlereagh in our sieges might save some disgraces,
Being used to the taking and keeping of places;
And Volunteer Canning, still ready for joining,
Might show off his talent for sly under-mining.
Could the Household but spare us its glory and pride,
Old Headfort at horn-works again might be tried,
And as Chief Justice make a bold charge at his side:
While Vansittart could victual the troops upon tick,
And the Doctor look after the baggage and sick.

  Nay, I do not see why the great Regent himself
Should in times such as these stay at home on the shelf:
Tho' thro' narrow defiles he's not fitted to pass,
Yet who could resist, if he bore down en masse?
And tho' oft of an evening perhaps he might prove,
Like our Spanish confederates, "unable to move,"[1]
Yet there's one thing in war of advantage unbounded,
Which is, that he could not with ease be surrounded.

 In my next I shall sing of their arms and equipment:
At present no more, but—good luck to the shipment!

[1] The character given to the Spanish soldier, in Sir John Murray's memorable despatch.

HORACE, ODE I. LIB. III.

A FRAGMENT.

    odi profanum, valgus et arceo;
    favete linguis: carmina non prius
         audila Musarum sacerdos
          virginibus puerisque canto.
    regum timendorum in proprios greges,
    reges in ipsos imperium est Jovis.

1813.

I hate thee, oh, Mob, as my Lady hates delf;
  To Sir Francis I'll give up thy claps and thy hisses,
Leave old Magna Charta to shift for itself,
  And, like Godwin, write books for young masters and misses.
Oh! it is not high rank that can make the heart merry,
  Even monarchs themselves are not free from mishap:
Tho' the Lords of Westphalia must quake before Jerry,
  Poor Jerry himself has to quake before Nap.