NEWS FOR COUNTRY COUSINS.

Dear Coz, as I know neither you nor Miss Draper,
When Parliament's up, ever take in a paper,
But trust for your news to such stray odds and ends
As you chance to pick up from political friends-
Being one of this well-informed class, I sit down
To transmit you the last newest news that's in town.

As to Greece and Lord Cochrane, things couldn't look better—
His Lordship (who promises now to fight faster)
Has just taken Rhodes and despatched off a letter
To Daniel O'Connell, to make him Grand Master;
Engaging to change the old name, if he can,
From the Knights of St. John to the Knights of St. Dan;—
Or if Dan should prefer (as a still better whim)
Being made the Colossus, 'tis all one to him.

From Russia the last accounts are that the Tsar—
Most generous and kind as all sovereigns are,
And whose first princely act (as you know, I suppose)
Was to give away all his late brother's old clothes[1]—
Is now busy collecting with brotherly care
The late Emperor's nightcaps, and thinks, of bestowing
One nightcap apiece (if he has them to spare)
On all the distinguisht old ladies now going.
(While I write, an arrival from Riga—the "Brothers"—
Having nightcaps on board for Lord Eldon and others.)

Last advices from India—Sir Archy, 'tis thought,
Was near catching a Tartar (the first ever caught
In N. Lat. 2l.)—and his Highness Burmese,
Being very hard prest to shell out the rupees,
And not having rhino sufficient, they say, meant
To pawn his august Golden Foot[2] for the payment.

(How lucky for monarchs, that thus when they choose
Can establish a running account with the Jews!)
The security being what Rothschild calls "goot,"
A loan will be shortly, of course, set on foot;
The parties are Rothschild, A. Baring and Co.
With three other great pawnbrokers: each takes a toe,
And engages (lest Gold-foot should give us leg-bail,
As he did once before) to pay down on the nail.

* * * * *

This is all for the present—what vile pens and paper!
Yours truly, dear Cousin—best love to Miss Draper.

September, 1826.

[1] A distribution was made of the Emperor Alexander's military wardrobe by his successor.

[2] This potentate styles himself the Monarch of the Golden foot.

A VISION.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "CHRISTABEL."

"Up!" said the Spirit and ere I could pray
One hasty orison, whirled me away
To a Limbo, lying—I wist not where—
Above or below, in earth or air;
For it glimmered o'er with a doubtful light,
One couldn't say whether 'twas day or night;
And 'twas crost by many a mazy track,
One didn't know how to get on or back;
And I felt like a needle that's going astray
(With its one eye out) thro' a bundle of hay;
When the Spirit he grinned, and whispered me,
"Thou'rt now in the Court of Chancery!"

Around me flitted unnumbered swarms
Of shapeless, bodiless, tailless forms;
(Like bottled-up babes that grace the room
Of that worthy knight, Sir Everard Home)—
All of them, things half-killed in rearing;
Some were lame—some wanted hearing;
Some had thro' half a century run,
Tho' they hadn't a leg to stand upon.
Others, more merry, as just beginning,
Around on a point of law were spinning;
Or balanced aloft, 'twixt Bill and Answer,
Lead at each end, like a tight-rope dancer.
Some were so cross that nothing could please 'em;-
Some gulpt down affidavits to ease 'em—
All were in motion, yet never a one,
Let it move as it might, could ever move on,
"These," said the Spirit, "you plainly see,
"Are what they call suits in Chancery!"

I heard a loud screaming of old and young,
Like a chorus by fifty Vellutis sung;
Or an Irish Dump ("the words by Moore ")
At an amateur concert screamed in score;—
So harsh on my ear that wailing fell
Of the wretches who in this Limbo dwell!
It seemed like the dismal symphony
Of the shapes' Aeneas in hell did see;
Or those frogs whose legs a barbarous cook
Cut off and left the frogs in the brook,
To cry all night, till life's last dregs,
"Give us our legs!—give us our legs!"
Touched with the sad and sorrowful scene,
I askt what all this yell might mean,
When the Spirit replied, with a grin of glee,
"'Tis the cry of the Suitors in Chancery!"

I lookt and I saw a wizard rise,[1]
With a wig like a cloud before men's eyes.
In his aged hand he held a wand,
Wherewith he beckoned his embryo band,
And they moved and moved as he waved it o'er,
But they never get on one inch the more.
And still they kept limping to and fro,
Like Ariels round old Prospero—
Saying, "Dear Master, let us go,"
But still old Prospero answered "No."
And I heard the while that wizard elf
Muttering, muttering spells to himself,
While o'er as many old papers he turned,
As Hume e'er moved for or Omar burned.
He talkt of his virtue—"tho' some, less nice,
(He owned with a sigh) preferred his Vice"—
And he said, "I think"—"I doubt"—"I hope,"
Called God to witness, and damned the Pope;
With many more sleights of tongue and hand
I couldn't for the soul of me understand.
Amazed and posed, I was just about
To ask his name, when the screams without,
The merciless clack of the imps within,
And that conjuror's mutterings, made such a din,
That, startled, I woke—leapt up in my bed—
Found the Spirit, the imps, and the conjuror fled,
And blest my stars, right pleased to see,
That I wasn't as yet in Chancery.

[1] The Lord Chancellor Eldon.

THE PETITION OF THE ORANGEMEN OF IRELAND.

1826.

To the people of England, the humble Petition
  Of Ireland's disconsolate Orangemen, showing—
That sad, very sad, is our present condition;—
  Our jobbing all gone and our noble selves going;—

That forming one seventh, within a few fractions,
  Of Ireland's seven millions of hot heads and hearts,
We hold it the basest of all base transactions
  To keep us from murdering the other six parts;—

That as to laws made for the good of the many,
  We humbly suggest there is nothing less true;
As all human laws (and our own, more than any)
  Are made by and for a particular few:—

That much it delights every true Orange brother
  To see you in England such ardor evince,
In discussing which sect most tormented the other,
  And burned with most gusto some hundred years since;—

That we love to behold, while old England grows faint,
  Messrs. Southey and Butler nigh coming to blows,
To decide whether Dunstan, that strong-bodied Saint,
  Ever truly and really pulled the De'il's nose;

Whether t'other Saint, Dominic, burnt the De'il's paw—
  Whether Edwy intrigued with Elgiva's odd mother—
And many such points, from which Southey can draw
  Conclusions most apt for our hating each other.

That 'tis very well known this devout Irish nation
  Has now for some ages, gone happily on
Believing in two kinds of Substantiation,
  One party in Trans and the other in Con;[1]

That we, your petitioning Cons, have in right
  Of the said monosyllable ravaged the lands
And embezzled the goods and annoyed, day and night,
  Both the bodies and souls of the sticklers for Trans;—

That we trust to Peel, Eldon, and other such sages,
  For keeping us still in the same state of mind;
Pretty much as the world used to be in those ages,
  When still smaller syllables maddened mankind;—

When the words ex and per[2] served as well to annoy
  One's neighbors and friends with, as con and trans now;
And Christians, like Southey, who stickled for oi,
  Cut the throats of all Christians who stickled for ou.[3]

That relying on England whose kindness already
  So often has helpt us to play this game o'er,
We have got our red coats and our carabines ready,
  And wait but the word to show sport as before.

That as to the expense—the few millions or so,
  Which for all such diversions John Bull has to pay—
'Tis at least a great comfort to John Bull to know
  That to Orangemen's pockets 'twill all find its way.
For which your petitioners ever will pray,
        Etc., etc., etc., etc., etc.

[1] Consubstantiation—the true Reformed belief; at least, the belief of Luther, and, as Mosheim asserts, of Melancthon also.

[2] When John of Ragusa went to Constantinople (at the time this dispute between "ex" and "per" was going on), he found the Turks, we are told, "laughing at the Christians for being divided by two such insignificant particles."

[3] The Arian controversy.—Before that time, says Hooker, "in order to be a sound believing Christian, men were not curious what syllables or particles of speech they used."

COTTON AND CORN.

A DIALOGUE.

Said Cotton to Corn, t'other day,
  As they met and exchanged a salute—
(Squire Corn in his carriage so gay,
  Poor Cotton half famished on foot):

"Great Squire, if it isn't uncivil
  "To hint at starvation before you,
"Look down on a poor hungry devil,
  "And give him some bread, I implore you!"

Quoth Corn then in answer to Cotton,
  Perceiving he meant to make free—
"Low fellow, you've surely forgotten
  "The distance between you and me!

"To expect that we Peers of high birth
  "Should waste our illustrious acres,
"For no other purpose on earth
  "Than to fatten curst calico-makers!—

"That Bishops to bobbins should bend—
  "Should stoop from their Bench's sublimity,
"Great dealers in lawn, to befriend
  "Such contemptible dealers in dimity!

"No—vile Manufacture! ne'er harbor
  "A hope to be fed at our boards;—
"Base offspring of Arkwright the barber,
  "What claim canst thou have upon Lords?

"No—thanks to the taxes and debt,
  "And the triumph of paper o'er guineas,
"Our race of Lord Jemmys, as yet,
  "May defy your whole rabble of Jennys!"

So saying—whip, crack, and away
  Went Corn in his chaise thro' the throng,
So headlong, I heard them all say,
  "Squire Corn will be down before long."

THE CANONIZATION OF SAINT BUTTERWORTH.

"A Christian of the best edition."—RABELAIS.

Canonize him!—yea, verily, we'll canonize him,
  Tho' Cant is his hobby and meddling his bliss,
Tho' sages may pity and wits may despise him,
  He'll ne'er make a bit the worse Saint for all this.

Descend, all ye Spirits, that ever yet spread
  The dominion of Humbug o'er land and o'er sea,
Descend on our Butterworth's biblical head,
  Thrice-Great, Bibliopolist, Saint, and M. P.

Come, shade of Joanna, come down from thy sphere.
  And bring little Shiloh—if 'tisn't too far—
Such a sight will to Butterworth's bosom be dear,
  His conceptions and thine being much on a par.

Nor blush, Saint Joanna, once more to behold
  A world thou hast honored by cheating so many;
Thou'lt find still among us one Personage old,
  Who also by tricks and the Seals[1] makes a penny.

Thou, too, of the Shakers, divine Mother Lee![2]
  Thy smiles to beatified Butterworth deign;
Two "lights of the Gentiles" are thou, Anne, and he,
  One hallowing Fleet Street, and t'other Toad Lane![3]

The heathen, we know, made their Gods out of wood,
  And Saints may be framed of as handy materials;—
Old women and Butterworths make just as good
As any the Pope ever bookt as Ethereals.

Stand forth, Man of Bibles!—not Mahomet's pigeon,
  When perched on the Koran, he dropt there, they say,
Strong marks of his faith, ever shed o'er religion
  Such glory as Butterworth sheds every day.

Great Galen of souls, with what vigor he crams
  Down Erin's idolatrous throats, till they crack again,
Bolus on bolus, good man!—and then damns
  Both their stomachs and souls, if they dare cast them back again.

How well might his shop—as a type representing
  The creed of himself and his sanctified clan—
On its counter exhibit "the Art of Tormenting,"
  Bound neatly, and lettered "Whole Duty of Man!"

Canonize him!—by Judas, we will canonize him;
  For Cant is his hobby and twaddling his bliss;
And tho' wise men may pity and wits may despise him,
  He'll make but the better shop-saint for all this.

Call quickly together the whole tribe of Canters,
  Convoke all the serious Tag-rag of the nation;
Bring Shakers and Snufflers and Jumpers and Ranters
  To witness their Butterworth's Canonization!

Yea, humbly I've ventured his merits to paint,
  Yea, feebly have tried all his gifts to portray,
And they form a sum-total for making a Saint.
  That the Devil's own advocate could not gainsay.

Jump high, all ye Jumpers, ye Ranters all roar,
  While Butterworth's spirit, upraised from your eyes,
Like a kite made of foolscap, in glory shall soar,
  With a long tail of rubbish behind, to the skies!

[1] A great part of the income of Joanna Southcott arose from the Seals of the Lord's protection which she sold to her followers.

[2] Mrs. Anne Lee, the "chosen vessel" of the Shakers, and "Mother of all the children of regeneration."

[3] Toad Lane, in Manchester, where Mother Lee was born. In her "Address to Young Believers," she says, that "it is a matter of no importance with them from whence the means of their deliverance come, whether from a stable in Bethlehem, or from Toad Lane, Manchester."

AN INCANTATION.

SUNG BY THE BUBBLE SPIRIT.

Air.—Come with me, and we will go
         Where the rocks of coral grow.

Come with me and we will blow
Lots of bubbles as we go;
Bubbles bright as ever Hope
Drew from fancy—or from soap;
Bright as e'er the South Sea sent
From its frothy element!
Come with me and we will blow
Lots of bubbles as we go.
Mix the lather, Johnny Wilks,
Thou, who rhym'st so well to bilks;[1]
Mix the lather—who can be
Fitter for such tasks than thee,
Great M. P. for _Suds_bury!

Now the frothy charm is ripe,
Puffing Peter,[2] bring thy pipe,—
Thou whom ancient Coventry
Once so dearly loved that she
Knew not which to her was sweeter,
Peeping Tom or Puffing Peter;—
Puff the bubbles high in air,
Puff thy best to keep them there.

Bravo, bravo, Peter More!
Now the rainbow humbugs[3] soar.
Glittering all with golden hues
Such as haunt the dreams of Jews;—
Some reflecting mines that lie
Under Chili's glowing sky,
Some, those virgin pearls that sleep
Cloistered in the southern deep;
Others, as if lent a ray
From the streaming Milky Way,
Glistening o'er with curds and whey
From the cows of Alderney.

Now's the moment—who shall first
Catch the bubbles ere they burst?
Run, ye Squires, ye Viscounts, run,
Brogden, Teynham, Palmerston;—
John Wilks junior runs beside ye!
Take the good the knaves provide ye!
See, with upturned eyes and hands,
Where the _Share_man, Brogden, stands,
Gaping for the froth to fall
Down his gullet—lye and all.
See!—

    But, hark, my time is out—
Now, like some great water-spout,
Scattered by the cannon's thunder,
Burst ye bubbles, all asunder!

[Here the stage darkens—a discordant crash is heard from the orchestra —the broken bubbles descend in a saponaceous but uncleanly mist over the heads of the Dramatis Personae_, and the scene drops, leaving the bubble-hunters—all in the suds_.]

[1] Strong indications of character may be sometimes traced in the rhymes to names. Marvell thought so when he wrote "Sir Edward Button, The foolish Knight who rhymes to mutton."

[2] The member, during a long period, for Coventry.

[3] An humble imitation of one of our modern poets, who, in a poem against War, after describing the splendid habiliments of the soldier, thus apostrophizes him—"thou rainbow ruffian!"

A DREAM OF TURTLE.

BY SIR W. CURTIS.

1826.

'Twas evening time, in the twilight sweet
I sailed along, when—whom should I meet
But a Turtle journeying o'er the sea,
"On the service of his Majesty."[1]
When spying him first thro' twilight dim,
I didn't know what to make of him;
But said to myself, as slow he plied
His fins and rolled from side to side
Conceitedly o'er the watery path—
"'Tis my Lord of Stowell taking a bath,
"And I hear him now, among the fishes,
"Quoting Vatel and Burgersdicius!"
But, no—'twas, indeed, a Turtle wide
And plump as ever these eyes descried;
A turtle juicy as ever yet
Glued up the lips of a Baronet!
And much did it grieve my soul to see
That an animal of such dignity,
Like an absentee abroad should roam,
When he ought to stay and be ate at home.

But now "a change came o'er my dream,"
  Like the magic lantern's shifting slider;
I lookt and saw by the evening beam
  On the back of that Turtle sat a rider—
A goodly man with an eye so merry,
I knew 'twas our Foreign Secretary,[2]
Who there at his ease did sit and smile,
Like Waterton on his crocodile;[3]
Cracking such jokes, at every motion,
  As made the Turtle squeak with glee
And own they gave him a lively notion
  Of what his forced-meat balls would be.
So, on the Sec. in his glory went.
Over that briny element,
Waving his hand as he took farewell
With graceful air, and bidding me tell
Inquiring friends that the Turtle and he
Were gone on a foreign embassy—
To soften the heart of a Diplomat,
Who is known to dote upon verdant fat,
And to let admiring Europe see,
That calipash and calipee
Are the English forms of Diplomacy.

[1] We are told that the passport of this grand diplomatic Turtle (sent by the Secretary for Foreign Affairs to a certain noble envoy) described him as "on his majesty's service."

[2] Mr. Canning.

[3] Wanderings in South America. "It was the first and last time [says Mr. Waterton] I was ever on a crocodile's back."

THE DONKEY AND HIS PANNIERS.

A FABLE.

—"fessus jam sudat asellus, "parce illi; vestrum delicium est asinus." VERGIL. Copa.

A donkey whose talent for burdens was wondrous,
  So much that you'd swear he rejoiced in a load,
One day had to jog under panniers so ponderous,
  That—down the poor Donkey fell smack on the road!

His owners and drivers stood round in amaze
  What! Neddy, the patient, the prosperous Neddy,
So easy to drive thro' the dirtiest ways
  For every description of job-work so ready!

One driver (whom Ned might have "hailed" as a "brother")[1]
  Had just been proclaiming his Donkey's renown
For vigor, for spirit, for one thing or other—
  When, lo! mid his praises the Donkey came down!
But how to upraise him?—one shouts, t'other whistles,
  While Jenky, the Conjuror, wisest of all,
Declared that an "over-production of thistles[2]—
  (Here Ned gave a stare)—was the cause of his fall."

Another wise Solomon cries as he passes—
  "There, let him alone and the fit will soon cease;
"The beast has been fighting with other jack-asses,
  "And this is his mode of 'transition to peace.'"

Some lookt at his hoofs, and with learned grimaces
  Pronounced that too long without shoes he had gone—
"Let the blacksmith provide him a sound metal basis,"
  (The wise-acres said), "and he's sure to jog on."

Meanwhile, the poor Neddy in torture and fear
  Lay under his panniers, scarce able to groan;
And—what was still dolefuller—lending an ear
  To advisers whose ears were a match for his own.

At length a plain rustic whose wit went so far
  As to see others' folly, roared out, as he past—
"Quick—off with the panniers, all dolts as ye are,
  "Or your prosperous Neddy will soon kick his last!"

October, 1826.

[1] Alluding to an early poem of Mr. Coleridge's, addressed to an Ass, and beginning, "I hail thee, brother!"

[2] A certain country gentleman having said in the House, "that we must return at last to the food of our ancestors," somebody asked Mr. T. "what food the gentleman meant?"—"Thistles, I suppose," answered Mr. T.

ODE TO THE SUBLIME PORTE.

1826.

Great Sultan, how wise are thy state compositions!
  And oh! above all I admire that Decree,
In which thou command'st that all she politicians
  Shall forthwith be strangled and cast in the sea.

'Tis my fortune to know a lean Benthamite spinster—
  A maid who her faith in old Jeremy puts,
Who talks with a lisp of "the last new West_minster_,"
  And hopes you're delighted with "Mill upon Gluts;"

Who tells you how clever one Mr. Funblank is,
  How charming his Articles 'gainst the Nobility;—
And assures you that even a gentleman's rank is
  In Jeremy's school, of no sort of utility.

To see her, ye Gods, a new Number perusing—
  ART. 1.—"On the Needle's variations," by Pl—ce;[1]
  ART. 2.—By her Favorite Funblank[2]—"so amusing!
  "Dear man! he makes Poetry quite a Law case."

ART. 3.—"Upon Fallacies," Jeremy's own—
  (Chief Fallacy being his hope to find readers);-
ART. 4.—"Upon Honesty," author unknown;—
  ART. 5.—(by the young Mr. Mill) "Hints to Breeders."

Oh, Sultan, oh, Sultan, tho' oft for the bag
  And the bowstring, like thee, I am tempted to call—
Tho' drowning's too good for each blue-stocking hag,
  I would bag this she Benthamite first of them all!

And lest she should ever again lift her head
  From the watery bottom, her clack to renew—
As a clog, as a sinker, far better than lead,
  I would hang around her neck her own darling Review.

[1] A celebrated political tailor.

[2] This pains-taking gentleman has been at the trouble of counting, with the assistance of Cocker, the number of metaphors in Moore's "Life of Sheridan," and has found them to amount, as nearly as possible, to 2235— and some fractions.

CORN AND CATHOLICS.

utrum horum dirius borun? Incerti Auctoris.

What! still those two infernal questions,
  That with our meals our slumbers mix—
That spoil our tempers and digestions—
  Eternal Corn and Catholics!

Gods! were there ever two such bores?
  Nothing else talkt of night or morn—
Nothing in doors or out of doors,
  But endless Catholics and Corn!

Never was such a brace of pests—
  While Ministers, still worse than either,
Skilled but in feathering their nests,
  Plague us with both and settle neither.

So addled in my cranium meet
  Popery and Corn that oft I doubt,
Whether, this year, 'twas bonded Wheat,
  Or bonded Papists, they let out.

Here, landlords, here polemics nail you,
  Armed with all rubbish they can rake up;
Prices and Texts at once assail you—
  From Daniel these, and those from Jacob,

And when you sleep, with head still torn
  Between the two, their shapes you mix,
Till sometimes Catholics seem Corn—
  Then Corn again seems Catholics.

Now Dantsic wheat before you floats—
  Now Jesuits from California—
Now Ceres linkt with Titus Oats,
  Comes dancing thro' the "Porta _Corn_ea."[1]

Oft too the Corn grows animate,
  And a whole crop of heads appears,
Like Papists, bearding Church and State—
  Themselves, together by the ears!

In short these torments never cease,
  And oft I wish myself transferred off
To some far, lonely land of peace
  Where Corn or Papists ne'er were heard of.

Yes, waft me, Parry, to the Pole;
  For—if my fate is to be chosen
'Twixt bores and icebergs—on my soul,
  I'd rather, of the two, be frozen!

[1] The Horn Gate, through which the ancients supposed all true dreams (such as those of the Popish Plot, etc.) to pass.

A CASE OF LIBEL.

"The greater the truth, the worse the libel."

A certain Sprite, who dwells below,
  ('Twere a libel perhaps to mention where,)
Came up incog. some years ago
  To try for a change the London air.

So well he lookt and drest and talkt,
  And hid his tail and horns so handy,
You'd hardly have known him as he walkt
  From C——e, or any other Dandy.

(His horns, it seems, are made to unscrew;
  So he has but to take them out of the socket,
And—just as some fine husbands do—
  Conveniently clap them into his pocket.)

In short, he lookt extremely natty,
  And even contrived—to his own great wonder—
By dint of sundry scents from Gattie,
  To keep the sulphurous hogo under.

And so my gentleman hoofed about,
  Unknown to all but a chosen few
At White's and Crockford's, where no doubt
  He had many post-obits falling due.

Alike a gamester and a wit,
  At night he was seen with Crockford's crew,
At morn with learned dames would sit—
  So past his time 'twixt black and blue.

Some wisht to make him an M. P.,
  But, finding Wilks was also one, he
Swore, in a rage, "he'd be damned, if he
  "Would ever sit in one house with Johnny."

At length as secrets travel fast,
  And devils, whether he or she,
Are sure to be found out at last,
  The affair got wind most rapidly.

The Press, the impartial Press, that snubs
  Alike a fiend's or an angel's capers—
Miss Paton's soon as Beelzebub's,
  Fired off a squib in the morning papers:

"We warn good men to keep aloof
  "From a grim old Dandy seen about
"With a fire-proof wig and a cloven hoof
  "Thro' a neat-cut Hoby smoking out."

Now,—the Devil being gentleman,
  Who piques himself on well-bred dealings,—
You may guess, when o'er these lines he ran,
  How much they hurt and shockt his feelings.

Away he posts to a Man of Law,
  And 'twould make you laugh could you have seen 'em,
As paw shook hand, and hand shook paw,
  And 'twas "hail, good fellow, well met," between 'em.

Straight an indictment was preferred—
  And much the Devil enjoyed the jest,
When, asking about the Bench, he heard
  That, of all the Judges, his own was Best.[1]

In vain Defendant proffered proof
  That Plaintiff's self was the Father of Evil—
Brought Hoby forth to swear to the hoof
  And Stultz to speak to the tail of the Devil.

The Jury (saints, all snug and rich,
  And readers of virtuous Sunday papers)
Found for the Plaintiff—on hearing which
  The Devil gave one of his loftiest capers.

For oh, 'twas nuts to the Father of Lies
  (As this wily fiend is named in the Bible)
To find it settled by laws so wise,
  That the greater the truth, the worse the libel!

[1] A celebrated Judge, so named.

LITERARY ADVERTISEMENT.

Wanted—Authors of all-work to job for the season,
  No matter which party, so faithful to neither;
Good hacks who, if posed for a rhyme or a reason.
  Can manage, like ******, to do without either.

If in jail, all the better for out-o'-door topics;
  Your jail is for travellers a charming retreat;
They can take a day's rule for a trip to the Tropics,
  And sail round the world at their ease in the Fleet.

For a dramatist too the most useful of schools—
  He can study high life in the King's Bench community;
Aristotle could scarce keep him more within rules,
  And of place he at least must adhere to the unity.

Any lady or gentleman, come to an age
  To have good "Reminiscences" (three-score or higher)
Will meet with encouragement—so much, per page,
  And the spelling and grammar both found by the buyer.

No matter with what their remembrance is stockt,
  So they'll only remember the quantum desired;—
Enough to fill handsomely Two Volumes, oct.,
  Price twenty-four shillings, is all that's required.

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.