HORACE, ODE XXXVIII. LIB. I.

A FRAGMENT.

    persico odi, puer, adparatus;
    displicent nexae philyra coronae;
    mitte sectari, Rosa quo locorum
      sera moretur.

TRANSLATED BY A TREASURY CLERK, WHILE WAITING DINNER FOR THE RIGHT HON. GEORGE ROBE.

Boy, tell the Cook that I hate all nicknackeries.
Fricassees, vol-au-vents, puffs, and gim-crackeries—
Six by the Horse-Guards!—old Georgy is late—
But come—lay the table-cloth—zounds! do not wait,
Nor stop to inquire, while the dinner is staying,
At which of his places Old Rose is delaying!

* * * * *

IMPROMPTU.

UPON BEING OBLIGED TO LEAVE A PLEASANT PARTY, FROM THE WANT OF A PAIR OF BREECHES TO DRESS FOR DINNER IN.

1810.

Between Adam and me the great difference is,
  Tho' a paradise each has been forced to resign,
That he never wore breeches, till turned out of his,
  While for want of my breeches, I'm banisht from mine.

LORD WELLINGTON AND THE MINISTERS.

1813.

So gently in peace Alcibiades smiled,
  While in battle he shone forth so terribly grand,
That the emblem they graved on his seal, was a child
  With a thunderbolt placed in its innocent hand.

Oh Wellington, long as such Ministers wield
Your magnificent arm, the same emblem will do;
For while they're in the Council and you in the Field.
We've the babies in them, and the thunder in you!

The following trifles, having enjoyed in their circulation through the newspapers all the celebrity and length of life to which they were entitled, would have been suffered to pass quietly into oblivion without pretending to any further distinction, had they not already been published, in a collective form, both in London and Paris, and, in each case, been mixed up with a number of other productions, to which, whatever may be their merit, the author of the following pages has no claim. A natural desire to separate his own property, worthless as it is, from that of others, is, he begs to say, the chief motive of the publication of this volume.

TO SIR HUDSON LOWE.

effare causam nominis, utrumne mores hoc tui nomen dedere, an nomen hoc secuta morum regula. AUSONIUS.

1816.

  Sir Hudson Lowe, Sir Hudson Low,
(By name, and ah! by nature so)
  As thou art fond of persecutions,
Perhaps thou'st read, or heard repeated,
How Captain Gulliver was treated,
  When thrown among the Lilliputians.

They tied him down—these little men did—
And having valiantly ascended
  Upon the Mighty Man's protuberance,
They did so strut!—upon my soul,
It must have been extremely droll
  To see their pigmy pride's exuberance!

And how the doughty mannikins
Amused themselves with sticking pins
  And needles in the great man's breeches:
And how some very little things,
That past for Lords, on scaffoldings
  Got up and worried him with speeches,

Alas, alas! that it should happen
To mighty men to be caught napping!—
  Tho' different too these persecutions;
For Gulliver, there, took the nap,
While, here, the Nap, oh sad mishap,
  Is taken by the Lilliputians!

AMATORY COLLOQUY BETWEEN BANK AND GOVERNMENT.

1826.

BANK.

Is all then forgotten? those amorous pranks
  You and I in our youth, my dear Government, played;
When you called me the fondest, the truest of Banks,
  And enjoyed the endearing advances I made!

When left to ourselves, unmolested and free,
  To do all that a dashing young couple should do,
A law against paying was laid upon me,
  But none against owing, dear helpmate, on you.

And is it then vanisht?—that "hour (as Othello
  So happily calls it) of Love and Direction?"
And must we, like other fond doves, my dear fellow,
  Grow good in our old age and cut the connection?

GOVERNMENT.

Even so, my beloved Mrs. Bank, it must be;
  This paying in cash plays the devil with wooing:
We've both had our swing, but I plainly foresee
  There must soon be a stop to our _bill_ing and cooing.

Propagation in reason—a small child or two—
  Even Reverend Malthus himself is a friend to;
The issue of some folks is moderate and few—
  But ours, my dear corporate Bank, there's no end to!

So—hard tho' it be on a pair, who've already
  Disposed of so many pounds, shillings and pence;
And in spite of that pink of prosperity, Freddy,[1]
  So lavish of cash and so sparing of sense—

The day is at hand, my Papyria[2] Venus,
  When—high as we once used to carry our capers—
Those soft billet-doux we're now passing between us,
  Will serve but to keep Mrs. Coutts in curl-papers:

And when—if we still must continue our love,
  (After all that has past)—our amour, it is clear,
Like that which Miss Danäe managed with Jove,
  Must all be transacted in bullion, my dear!

February, 1826.

[1] Honorable Fredrick Robinson.

[2] So called, to distinguish her from the Aure or Golden Venus.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A SOVEREIGN AND A ONE POUND NOTE.

"o ego non felix, quam tu fugis, ut pavet acres agna lupos, capreaeque leones."—HOR.

    Said a Sovereign to a Note,
    In the pocket of his coat,
Where they met in a neat purse of leather,
    "How happens it, I prithee,
    "That, tho' I'm wedded with thee,
"Fair Pound, we can never live together?

    "Like your sex, fond of change
    "With Silver you can range,
"And of lots of young sixpences be mother;
    "While with me—upon my word,
    "Not my Lady and my Lord
"Of Westmouth see so little of each other!"

    The indignant Note replied
    (Lying crumpled by his side),
"Shame, shame, it is yourself that roam, Sir—
    "One cannot look askance,
    "But, whip! you're off to France,
"Leaving nothing but old rags at home, Sir.

    "Your scampering began
    "From the moment Parson Van,
"Poor man, made us one in Love's fetter;
    "'For better or for worse'
    "Is the usual marriage curse,
"But ours is all 'worse' and no 'better.'

    "In vain are laws past,
    "There's nothing holds you fast,
"Tho' you know, sweet Sovereign, I adore you—
    "At the smallest hint in life,
    "You forsake your lawful wife,
"As other Sovereigns did before you.

    "I flirt with Silver, true—
    "But what can ladies do,
"When disowned by their natural protectors?
    "And as to falsehood, stuff!
    "I shall soon be false enough,
"When I get among those wicked Bank Directors."

    The Sovereign, smiling on her,
    Now swore upon his honor,
To be henceforth domestic and loyal;
    But, within an hour or two,
    Why—I sold him to a Jew,
And he's now at No. 10, Palais Royal.

AN EXPOSTULATION TO LORD KING.

"quem das finem, rex magne, laborum?" VERGIL.

1826.

How can you, my Lord, thus delight to torment all
  The Peers of the realm about cheapening their corn,[1]
When you know, if one hasn't a very high rental,
  'Tis hardly worth while being very high born?

Why bore them so rudely, each night of your life,
  On a question, my Lord, there's so much to abhor in?
A question-like asking one, "How is your wife?"—
  At once so confounded domestic and foreign.

As to weavers, no matter how poorly they feast;
  But Peers and such animals, fed up for show,
(Like the well-physickt elephant, lately deceased,)
  Take a wonderful quantum of cramming, you know.

You might see, my dear Baron, how bored and distrest
  Were their high noble hearts by your merciless tale,
When the force of the agony wrung even a jest
  From the frugal Scotch wit of my Lord Lauderdale![2]

Bright Peer! to whom Nature and Berwickshire gave
  A humor endowed with effects so provoking,
That when the whole House looks unusually grave
  You may always conclude that Lord Lauderdale's joking!

And then, those unfortunate weavers of Perth—
  Not to know the vast difference Providence dooms
Between weavers of Perth and Peers of high birth,
  'Twixt those who have _heir_looms, and those who've but looms!

"To talk now of starving!"—as great Athol said[3]—
  (And the nobles all cheered and the bishops all wondered,)
"When some years ago he and others had fed
  "Of these same hungry devils about fifteen hundred!"

It follows from hence—and the Duke's very words
  Should be publisht wherever poor rogues of this craft are—
That weavers, once rescued from starving by Lords,
  Are bound to be starved by said Lords ever after.

When Rome was uproarious, her knowing patricians
  Made "Bread and the Circus" a cure for each row;
But not so the plan of our noble physicians,
  "No Bread and the Treadmill,"'s the regimen now.

So cease, my dear Baron of Ockham, your prose,
  As I shall my poetry—neither convinces;
And all we have spoken and written but shows,
  When you tread on a nobleman's corn,[4]
how he winces.

[1] See the proceedings of the Lords, Wednesday, March 1, 1826, when Lord King was severely reproved by several of the noble Peers, for making so many speeches against the Corn Laws.

[2] This noble Earl said, that "when he heard the petition came from ladies' boot and shoe-makers, he thought it must be against the 'corns' which they inflicted on the fair sex."

[3] The Duke of Athol said, that "at a former period, when these weavers were in great distress, the landed interest of Perth had supported 1500 of them, it was a poor return for these very men now to petition against the persons who had fed them."

[4] An improvement, we flatter ourselves, on Lord L.'s joke.

THE SINKING FUND CRIED.

"Now what, we ask, is become of this Sinking Fund—these eight millions of surplus above expenditure, which were to reduce the interest of the national debt by the amount of four hundred thousand pounds annually? Where, indeed, is the Sinking Fund itself?" —The Times.

    Take your bell, take your bell,
    Good Crier, and tell
To the Bulls and the Bears, till their ears are stunned,
    That, lost or stolen,
    Or fallen thro' a hole in
The Treasury floor, is the Sinking Fund!

    O yes! O yes!
    Can anybody guess
What the deuce has become of this Treasury wonder?
    It has Pitt's name on't,
    All brass, in the front,
And Robinson's scrawled with a goose-quill under.

    Folks well knew what
    Would soon be its lot,
When Frederick and Jenky set hob-nobbing,[1]
    And said to each other,
    "Suppose, dear brother,
"We make this funny old Fund worth robbing."

    We are come, alas!
    To a very pretty pass—
Eight Hundred Millions of score, to pay,

    With but Five in the till,
    To discharge the bill,
And even that Five, too, whipt away!

    Stop thief! stop thief!—
    From the Sub to the Chief,
These Gemmen of Finance are plundering cattle—
    Call the watch—call Brougham,
    Tell Joseph Hume,
That best of Charleys, to spring his rattle.

    Whoever will bring
    This aforesaid thing
To the well-known House of Robinson and Jenkin,
    Shall be paid, with thanks,
    In the notes of banks,
Whose Funds have all learned "the Art of Sinking."

    O yes! O yes!
    Can anybody guess
What the devil has become of this Treasury wonder?
    It has Pitt's name on't,
    All brass, in the front,
And Robinson's, scrawled with a goose-quill under.

[1] In 1824, when the Sinking Fund was raised by the imposition of new taxes to the sum of five millions.

ODE TO THE GODDESS CERES.

BY SIR THOMAS LETHBRIDGE.

"legiferoe Cereri Phoeboque."—VERGIL.

Dear Goddess of Corn whom the ancients, we know,
  (Among other odd whims of those comical bodies,)
Adorned with somniferous poppies to show
  Thou wert always a true Country-gentleman's Goddess.

Behold in his best shooting-jacket before thee
  An eloquent 'Squire, who most humbly beseeches.
Great Queen of Mark-lane (if the thing doesnt bore thee),
  Thou'lt read o'er the last of his—never-last speeches.

Ah! Ceres, thou knowest not the slander and scorn
  Now heapt upon England's 'Squirearchy, so boasted;
Improving on Hunt,[1] 'tis no longer the Corn,
  'Tis the growers of Corn that are now, alas! roasted.

In speeches, in books, in all shapes they attack us—
  Reviewers, economists—fellows no doubt
That you, my dear Ceres and Venus and Bacchus
  And Gods of high fashion, know little about.

There's Bentham, whose English is all his own making,—
  Who thinks just as little of settling a nation
As he would of smoking his pipe or of taking
  (What he himself calls) his "postprandial vibration."[2]

There are two Mr. Mills to whom those that love reading
  Thro' all that's unreadable call very clever;—
And whereas Mill Senior makes war on good breeding,
  Mill Junior makes war on all breeding whatever!

In short, my dear Goddess, old England's divided
  Between ultra blockheads and superfine sages;—
With which of these classes we landlords have sided
  Thou'lt find in my Speech if thou'lt read a few pages.

For therein I've proved to my own satisfaction
  And that of all 'Squires I've the honor of meeting
That 'tis the most senseless and foul-mouthed detraction
  To say that poor people are fond of cheap eating.

On the contrary, such the "chaste notions"[3] of food
  That dwell in each pale manufacturer's heart,
They would scorn any law, be it ever so good,
  That would make thee, dear Goddess, less dear than thou art!

And, oh! for Monopoly what a blest day,
  Whom the Land and the Silk[4] shall in fond combination
(Like Sulky and Silky, that pair in the play,)[5]
  Cry out with one voice for High Rents and Starvation!

Long life to the Minister!—no matter who,
  Or how dull he may be, if with dignified spirit he
Keeps the ports shut—and the people's mouths too—
  We shall all have a long run of Freddy's prosperity,

And, as for myself, who've, like Hannibal, sworn
  To hate the whole crew who would take our rents from us,
Had England but One to stand by thee, Dear Corn,
  That last, honest Uni-Corn[6] would be Sir Thomas!

[1] A sort of "breakfast-power," composed of roasted corn, was about this time introduced by Mr. Hunt, as a substitute for coffee.

[2] The venerable Jeremy's phrase for his after-dinner walk.

[3] A phrase in one of Sir Thomas's last speeches.

[4] Great efforts were, at that time, making for the exclusion of foreign silk.

[5] "Road to Ruin."

[6] This is meant not so much for a pun, as in allusion to the natural history of the Unicorn, which is supposed to be, something between the Bos and the Asinus, and, as Rees's Cyclopaedia assures us, has a particular liking for everything "chaste."

A HYMN OF WELCOME AFTER THE RECESS.

"animas sapientiores fieri quiescendo."

And now-cross-buns and pancakes o'er—
Hail, Lords and Gentlemen, once more!
  Thrice hail and welcome, Houses Twain!
The short eclipse of April-Day
Having (God grant it!) past away,
  Collective Wisdom, shine again!

Come, Ayes and Noes, thro' thick and thin,—
With Paddy Holmes for whipper-in,—
  Whate'er the job, prepared to back it;
Come, voters of Supplies—bestowers
Of jackets upon trumpet-blowers,
  At eighty mortal pounds the jacket![1]

Come—free, at length, from Joint-Stock cares—
Ye Senators of many Shares,
  Whose dreams of premium knew no boundary;
So fond of aught like Company,
That you would even have taken tea
  (Had you been askt) with Mr. Goundry.[2]

Come, matchless country-gentlemen;
Come, wise Sir Thomas—wisest then
  When creeds and corn-lords are debated;
Come, rival even the Harlot Red,
And show how wholly into bread
  A 'Squire is transubstantiated,

Come, Lauderdale, and tell the world,
That—surely as thy scratch is curled
  As never scratch was curled before—
Cheap eating does more harm than good,
And working-people spoiled by food,
  The less they eat, will work the more.

Come, Goulburn, with thy glib defence
(Which thou'dst have made for Peter's Pence)
  Of Church-rates, worthy of a halter;
Two pipes of port (old port, 'twas said
By honest _New_port)[3] bought and paid
  By Papists for the Orange Altar![4]

Come, Horton, with thy plan so merry
For peopling Canada from Kerry—
  Not so much rendering Ireland quiet,
As grafting on the dull Canadians
That liveliest of earth's contagions,
  The bull-pock of Hibernian riot!

Come all, in short, ye wondrous men
Of wit and wisdom, come again;
  Tho' short your absence, all deplore it—
Oh, come and show, whate'er men say,
That you can after April-Day,
  Be just as—sapient as before it.

[1] An item of expense which Mr. Hume in vain endeavored tog et rid of:— trumpeters, it appears like the men of All-Souls, must be "bene vestiti."

[2] The gentleman, lately before the public, who kept his Joint-Stock Tea Company all to himself, singing "Te solo adoro."

[3] Sir John Newport.

[4] This charge of two pipes of port for the sacramental wine is a precious specimen of the sort of rates levied upon their Catholic fellow- parishioners by the Irish Protestants. "The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine."

MEMORABILIA OF LAST WEEK.

MONDAY, MARCH 13, 1826.

The Budget—quite charming and witty—no hearing,
For plaudits and laughs, the good things that were in it;—
Great comfort to find, tho' the speech isn't cheering,
  That all its gay auditors were every minute.

What, still more prosperity!—mercy upon us,
  "This boy'll be the death of me"—oft as, already,
Such smooth Budgeteers have genteelly undone us,
  For Ruin made easy there's no one like Freddy.

TUESDAY.

Much grave apprehension exprest by the Peers,
  Lest—calling to life the old Peachums and Lockitts—
The large stock of gold we're to have in three years,
  Should all find its way into highwaymen's pockets![1]

WEDNESDAY.

Little doing—for sacred, oh Wednesday, thou art
  To the seven-o'-clock joys of full many a table—
When the Members all meet, to make much of that part,
  With which they so rashly fell out in the Fable.

It appeared, tho', to-night, that—as church-wardens yearly,
  Eat up a small baby—those cormorant sinners.
The Bankrupt Commissioners, bolt very nearly
  A moderate-sized bankrupt, tout chaud, for their dinners![2]

Nota bene—a rumor to-day, in the city, "Mr. Robinson just has resigned"—what a pity!

The Bulls and the Bears all fell a sobbing,
When they heard of the fate of poor Cock Robin:
While thus, to the nursery tune, so pretty,
A murmuring Stock-dove breathed her ditty:—

Alas, poor Robin, he crowed as long
  And as sweet as a prosperous Cock could crow;
But his note was small and the gold-finch's song
  Was a pitch too high for Robin to go.
        Who'll make his shroud?

"I," said the Bank, "tho' he played me a prank,
  "While I have a rag, poor Rob shall be rolled in't,
"With many a pound I'll paper him round,
  "Like a plump rouleau—without the gold in it."

[1] "Another objection to a metallic currency was, that it produced a greater number of highway robberies."—Debate in the Lords.

[2] Mr. Abercromby's statement of the enormous tavern bills of the Commissioners of Bankrupts.

ALL IN THE FAMILY WAY.

A NEW PASTORAL BALLAD.

(SUNG IN THE CHARACTER OF BRITANNIA.)

"The Public Debt is due from ourselves to ourselves, and resolves itself into a Family Account."—Sir Robert Peel's Letter.

Tune—My banks are all furnisht with bees.

My banks are all furnisht with rags,
  So thick, even Freddy can't thin 'em;
I've torn up my old money-bags,
  Having little or nought to put in 'em.
My tradesmen are smashing by dozens,
  But this is all nothing, they say;
For bankrupts since Adam are cousins,—
  So, it's all in the family way.

My Debt not a penny takes from me.
  As sages the matter explain;—
Bob owes it to Tom, and then Tommy
  Just owes it to Bob back again.
Since all have thus taken to owing,
  There's nobody left that can pay;
And this is the way to keep going,—
  All quite in the family way.

My senators vote away millions,
  To put in Prosperity's budget;
And tho' it were billions or trillions,
  The generous rogues wouldnt grudge it.
'Tis all but a family hop,
  'Twas Pitt began dancing the hay;
Hands round!—why the deuce should we stop?
  'Tis all in the family way.

My laborers used to eat mutton,
  As any great man of the State does;
And now the poor devils are put on
  Small rations of tea and potatoes.
But cheer up, John, Sawney, and Paddy,
  The King is your father, they say;
So even if you starve for your Daddy,
  'Tis all in the family way.

My rich manufacturers tumble,
  My poor ones have nothing to chew;
And even if themselves do not grumble
  Their stomachs undoubtedly do.
But coolly to fast en famille,
  Is as good for the soul as to pray;
And famine itself is genteel,
  When one starves in a family way.

I have found out a secret for Freddy,
  A secret for next Budget day;
Tho' perhaps he may know it already,
  As he too's a sage in his way.
When next for the Treasury scene he
  Announces "the Devil to pay,"
Let him write on the bills, "nota bene,
  "'Tis all in the family way."

BALLAD FOR THE CAMBRIDGE ELECTION.

    "I authorized my Committee to take the step which they did, of
    proposing a fair comparison of strength, upon the understanding that
    whichever of the two should prove to be the weakest, should
    give way to the other."
    —Extract from Mr. W. J. Bankes's Letter to Mr. Goulbourn.

Bankes is weak, and Goulbourn too,
  No one e'er the fact denied;—
Which is "weakest" of the two,
  Cambridge can alone decide.
Choose between them, Cambridge, pray,
Which is weakest, Cambridge, say.

Goulbourn of the Pope afraid is,
  Bankes, as much afraid as he;
Never yet did two old ladies
  On this point so well agree.
Choose between them, Cambridge, pray,
Which is weakest. Cambridge, say.

Each a different mode pursues,
  Each the same conclusion reaches;
Bankes is foolish in Reviews,
  Goulbourn foolish in his speeches.
Choose between them, Cambridge, pray,
Which is weakest, Cambridge, say.

Each a different foe doth damn,
  When his own affairs have gone ill;
Bankes he damneth Buckingham,
  Goulbourn damneth Dan O'Connell.
Choose between them, Cambridge, pray,
Which is weakest, Cambridge, say.
Once we know a horse's neigh
  Fixt the election to a throne,
So whichever first shall bray
  Choose him, Cambridge, for thy own.
Choose him, choose him by his bray,
Thus elect him, Cambridge, pray.

June, 1826.

MR. ROGER DODSWORTH.

1826.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES.

Sir—Having just heard of the wonderful resurrection of Mr. Roger Dodsworth from under an avalanche, where he had remained, bien frappe, it seems, for the last 166 years, I hasten to impart to you a few reflections on the subject.—Yours, etc.

Laudator Temporis Acti.

What a lucky turn-up!—just as Eldon's withdrawing,
  To find thus a gentleman, frozen in the year
Sixteen hundred and sixty, who only wants thawing
  To serve for our times quite as well as the Peer;—

To bring thus to light, not the Wisdom alone
  Of our Ancestors, such as 'tis found on our shelves,
But in perfect condition, full-wigged and full-grown,
  To shovel up one of those wise bucks themselves!

Oh thaw Mr. Dodsworth and send him safe home—
  Let him learn nothing useful or new on the way;
With his wisdom kept snug from the light let him come,
  And our Tories will hail him with "Hear!" and "Hurrah!"

What a God-send to them!—a good, obsolete man,
  Who has never of Locke or Voltaire been a reader;—
Oh thaw Mr. Dodsworth as fast as you can,
  And the Lonsdales and Hertfords shall choose him for leader.

Yes, Sleeper of Ages, thou shalt be their chosen;
  And deeply with thee will they sorrow, good men,
To think that all Europe has, since thou wert frozen,
  So altered thou hardly wilt know it again.

And Eldon will weep o'er each sad innovation
  Such oceans of tears, thou wilt fancy that he
Has been also laid up in a long congelation,
  And is only now thawing, dear Roger, like thee.

COPY OF AN INTERCEPTED DESPATCH.

FROM HIS EXCELLENCY DON STREPITOSO DIABOLO, ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY TO HIS SATANIC MAJESTY.

St. James's Street, July 1, 1826.

Great Sir, having just had the good luck to catch
  An official young demon, preparing to go,
Ready booted and spurred, with a black-leg despatch
  From the Hell here at Crockford's, to our Hell below—

I write these few lines to your Highness Satanic,
  To say that first having obeyed your directions
And done all the mischief I could in "the Panic,"
  My next special care was to help the Elections.

Well knowing how dear were those times to thy soul,
  When every good Christian tormented his brother,
And caused, in thy realm, such a saving of coal,
  From all coming down, ready grilled by each other;

Remembering besides how it pained thee to part
  With the old Penal Code—that chef-d'oeuvre of Law,
In which (tho' to own it too modest thou art)
  We could plainly perceive the fine touch of thy claw;

I thought, as we ne'er can those good times revive,
  (Tho' Eldon, with help from your Highness would try,)
'Twould still keep a taste for Hell's music alive,
  Could we get up a thundering No-Popery cry;—

That yell which when chorused by laics and clerics,
  So like is to ours, in its spirit and tone.
That I often nigh laugh myself into hysterics,
  To think that Religion should make it her own.

So, having sent down for the original notes
  Of the chorus as sung by your Majesty's choir
With a few pints of lava to gargle the throats
  Of myself and some others who sing it "with fire,"[1]

Thought I, "if the Marseillais Hymn could command
  "Such audience, tho' yelled by a Sans-culotte crew
"What wonders shall we do, who've men in our band,
  "That not only wear breeches but petticoats too."

Such then were my hopes, but with sorrow, your Highness,
  I'm forced to confess—be the cause what it will,
Whether fewness of voices or hoarseness or shyness,—
  Our Beelzebub Chorus has gone off but ill.

The truth is no placeman now knows his right key,
  The Treasury pitch-pipe of late is so various;
And certain base voices, that lookt for a fee
  At the York music-meeting now think it precarious.

Even some of our Reverends might have been warmer,—
  Tho' one or two capital roarers we've had;
Doctor Wise[2]is for instance a charming performer,
  And Huntingdon Maberley's yell was not bad!

Altogether however the thing was not hearty;—
  Even Eldon allows we got on but so so;
And when next we attempt a No-Popery party,
  We must, please your Highness, recruit from below.

But hark! the young Black-leg is cracking his whip—
  Excuse me, Great Sir-there's no time to be civil;—
The next opportunity shan't be let slip,
  But, till then,
    I'm, in haste, your most dutiful
      DEVIL.

July, 1826

[1] Con fuoco—a music-book direction.

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

THE MILLENNIUM.

SUGGESTED BY THE LATE WORK OF THE REVEREND MR. IRVING "ON PROPHECY."

1826

A millennium at hand!—I'm delighted to hear it—
  As matters both public and private now go,
With multitudes round us all starving or near it.
  A good, rich Millennium will come à-propos.

Only think, Master Fred, what delight to behold,
  Instead of thy bankrupt old City of Rags,
A bran-new Jerusalem built all of gold,
  Sound bullion throughout from the roof to the flags—

A City where wine and cheap corn[1] shall abound—
  A celestial Cocaigne on whose buttery shelves
We may swear the best things of this world will be found,
  As your Saints seldom fail to take care of themselves!

Thanks, reverend expounder of raptures Elysian,
  Divine Squintifobus who, placed within reach
Of two opposite worlds, by a twist of your vision
  Can cast at the same time a sly look at each;—

Thanks, thanks for the hope thou affordest, that we
  May even in our own times a Jubilee share.
Which so long has been promist by prophets like thee,
  And so often postponed, we began to despair.

There was Whiston[2] who learnedly took Prince Eugene
  For the man who must bring the Millennium about;
There's Faber whose pious productions have been
  All belied ere his book's first edition was out;—

There was Counsellor Dobbs, too, an Irish M. P.,
  Who discoursed on the subject with signal eclat,
And, each day of his life sat expecting to see
  A Millennium break out in the town of Armagh![3]

There was also—but why should I burden my lay
  With your Brotherses, Southcotes, and names less deserving,
When all past Millenniums henceforth must give way
  To the last new Millennium of Orator Irving.

Go on, mighty man,—doom them all to the shelf,—
  And when next thou with Prophecy troublest thy sconce,
Oh forget not, I pray thee, to prove that thyself
  Art the Beast (Chapter iv.) that sees nine ways at once.

[1] "A measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley for a penny."—Rev. vi.

[2] When Whiston presented to Prince Eugene the Essay in which he attempted to connect his victories over the Turks with Revelation, the Prince is said to have replied, that "he was not aware he had ever had ever had honor of being known to St. John".

[3] Mr. Dobbs was a member of the Irish Parliament, and, on all other subjects but the Millennium, a very sensible person: he chose Armagh as the scene of his Millennium on account of the name Armageddon mentioned in Revelation.

THE THREE DOCTORS.

doctoribus loetamur tribus.

1826.

Tho' many great Doctors there be,
  There are three that all Doctors out-top,
Doctor Eady, that famous M. D.,
  Doctor Southey, and dear Doctor Slop.[1]

The purger, the proser, the bard—
  All quacks in a different style;
Doctor Southey writes books by the yard.
  Doctor Eady writes puffs by the mile![2]

Doctor Slop, in no merit outdone
  By his scribbling or physicking brother,
Can dose us with stuff like the one.
  Ay, and doze us with stuff like the other.

Doctor Eady good company keeps
  With "No Popery" scribes, on the walls;
Doctor Southey as gloriously sleeps
  With "No Popery" scribes on the stalls.

Doctor Slop, upon subjects divine,
  Such bedlamite slaver lets drop,
Taat if Eady should take the mad line,
  He'll be sure of a patient in Slop.

Seven millions of Papists, no less,
  Doctor Southey attacks, like a Turk;
Doctor Eady, less bold, I confess,
  Attacks but his maid-of-all-work

Doctor Southey, for his grand attack,
  Both a laureate and pensioner is;
While poor Doctor Eady, alack,
  Has been had up to Bow-street for his!

And truly, the law does so blunder,
  That tho' little blood has been spilt, he
May probably suffer as, under
  The Chalking Act, known to be guilty.

So much for the merits sublime
  (With whose catalogue ne'er should I stop)
Of the three greatest lights of our time,
  Doctor Eady and Southey and Slop!

Should you ask me, to which of the three
  Great Doctors the preference should fall,
As a matter of course I agree
  Doctor Eady must go to the wall.

But as Southey with laurels is crowned,
  And Slop with a wig and a tail is,
Let Eady's bright temples be bound
  With a swingeing "Corona Muralis!"[3]

[1] The editor of the Morning Herald, so nicknamed.

[2] Alluding to the display of this doctor's name, in chalk, on all the walls round the metropolis.

[3] A crown granted as a reward among the Romans to persons who performed any extraordinary exploits upon wall, such as scaling them, battering them, etc.—No doubt, writing upon them, to the extent Dr. Eady does, would equally establish a claim to the honor.

EPITAPH ON A TUFT-HUNTER.

Lament, lament, Sir Isaac Heard,
  Put mourning round thy page, Debrett,
For here lies one who ne'er preferred
  A Viscount to a Marquis yet.

Beside him place the God of Wit,
  Before him Beauty's rosiest girls,
Apollo for a star he'd quit,
  And Love's own sister for an Earl's.

Did niggard fate no peers afford,
  He took of course to peers' relations;
And rather than not sport a Lord
  Put up with even the last creations;

Even Irish names could he but tag 'em
  With "Lord" and "Duke," were sweet to call;
And at a pinch Lord Ballyraggum
  Was better than no Lord at all.

Heaven grant him now some noble nook,
  For rest his soul! he'd rather be
Genteelly damned beside a Duke,
  Than saved in vulgar company.

ODE TO A HAT.

—altum aedificat caput." JUVENAL

1826.

Hail, reverent Hat!—sublime mid all
  The minor felts that round thee grovel;—
Thou that the Gods "a Delta" call
  While meaner mortals call the "shovel."
When on thy shape (like pyramid,
  Cut horizontally in two)[1]
I raptured gaze, what dreams unbid
  Of stalls and mitres bless my view!

That brim of brims so sleekly good—
  Not flapt, like dull Wesleyans', down,
But looking (as all churchmen's should)
  Devoutly upward—towards the crown.

Gods! when I gaze upon that brim,
  So redolent of Church all over,
What swarms of Tithes in vision dim,—
Some-pig-tailed, some like cherubim,
  With ducklings' wings—around it hover!
Tenths of all dead and living things,
That Nature into being brings,
From calves and corn to chitterlings.

Say, holy Hat, that hast, of cocks,
The very cock most orthodox.
To which of all the well-fed throng
Of Zion,[2] joy'st thou to belong?
Thou'rt not Sir Harcourt Lees's—no-
  For hats grow like the heads that wear 'em:
And hats, on heads like his, would grow
  Particularly harum-scarum.

Who knows but thou mayst deck the pate
Of that famed Doctor Ad-mth-te,
(The reverend rat, whom we saw stand
On his hind-legs in Westmoreland,)
Who changed so quick from blue to yellow,
  And would from yellow back to blue,
And back again, convenient fellow,
  If 'twere his interest so to do.

Or haply smartest of triangles,
  Thou art the hat of Doctor Owen;
The hat that, to his vestry wrangles,
  That venerable priest doth go in,—
And then and there amid the stare
Of all St. Olave's, takes the chair
And quotes with phiz right orthodox
  The example of his reverend brothers,
To prove that priests all fleece their flocks
  And he must fleece as well as others.

Blest Hat! (whoe'er thy lord may be)
Thus low I take off mine to thee,
The homage of a layman's castor,
To the spruce delta of his pastor.
Oh mayst thou be, as thou proceedest,
  Still smarter cockt, still brusht the brighter,
Till, bowing all the way, thou leadest
  Thy sleek possessor to a mitre!

[1] So described by a Reverend Historian of the Church:—"A Delta hat like the horizontal section of a pyramid."—GRANT'S "History of the English Church."

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