THE REVEREND PAMPHLETEER.

A ROMANTIC BALLAD.

Oh, have you heard what hapt of late?
  If not, come lend an ear,
While sad I state the piteous fate
  Of the Reverend Pamphleteer.

All praised his skilful jockeyship,
  Loud rung the Tory cheer,
While away, away, with spur and whip,
  Went the Reverend Pamphleteer.

The nag he rode—how could it err?
  'Twas the same that took, last year,
That wonderful jump to Exeter
  With the Reverend Pamphleteer.

Set a beggar on horseback, wise men say,
  The course he will take is clear:
And in that direction lay the way
  Of the Reverend Pamphleteer,

"Stop, stop," said Truth, but vain her cry—
  Left far away in the rear,
She heard but the usual gay "Good-by"
  From her faithless Pamphleteer.

You may talk of the jumps of Homer's gods,
  When cantering o'er our sphere—
I'd back for a bounce, 'gainst any odds,
  This Reverend Pamphleteer.

But ah! what tumbles a jockey hath!
  In the midst of his career,
A file of the Times lay right in the path
  Of the headlong Pamphleteer.

Whether he tript or shyed thereat,
  Doth not so clear appear:
But down he came, as his sermons flat—
 This Reverend Pamphleteer!

Lord King himself could scarce desire
  To see a spiritual Peer
Fall much more dead, in the dirt and mire,
  Than did this Pamphleteer.

Yet pitying parsons many a day
  Shall visit his silent bier,
And, thinking the while of Stanhope, say
  "Poor dear old Pamphleteer!

"He has finisht at last his busy span,
  "And now lies coolly here—
"As often he did in life, good man,
  "Good, Reverend Pamphleteer!"

RECENT DIALOGUE.

1825.

A Bishop and a bold dragoon,
  Both heroes in their way,
Did thus, of late, one afternoon,
  Unto each other say:—
"Dear bishop," quoth the brave huzzar,
  "As nobody denies
"That you a wise logician are,
  "And I am—otherwise,
"'Tis fit that in this question, we
  "Stick each to his own art—
"That yours should be the sophistry,
  "And mine the fighting part.
"My creed, I need not tell you, is
  "Like that of Wellington,
"To whom no harlot comes amiss,
  "Save her of Babylon;
"And when we're at a loss for words,
  "If laughing reasoners flout us,
"For lack of sense we'll draw our swords—
  "The sole thing sharp about us."—

"Dear bold dragoon," the bishop said,
  "'Tis true for war thou art meant;
"And reasoning—bless that dandy head!
  "Is not in thy department.
"So leave the argument to me—
  "And, when my holy labor
"Hath lit the fires of bigotry,
  "Thou'lt poke them with thy sabre.
"From pulpit and from sentrybox,
  "We'll make our joint attacks,
"I at the head of my Cassocks,
  "And you, of your Cossacks.
"So here's your health, my brave huzzar,
  "My exquisite old fighter—
"Success to bigotry and war,
  "The musket and the mitre!"
Thus prayed the minister of heaven—
  While York, just entering then,
Snored out (as if some Clerk had given
  His nose the cue) "Amen."

THE WELLINGTON SPA.

    "And drink oblivion to our woes."
    Anna Matilda.

1829.

Talk no more of your Cheltenham and Harrowgate springs,
  'Tis from Lethe we now our potations must draw;
Yon Lethe's a cure for—all possible things,
  And the doctors have named it the Wellington Spa.

Other physical waters but cure you in part;
  One cobbles your gout—t'other mends your digestion—
Some settle your stomach, but this—bless your heart!—
  It will settle for ever your Catholic Question.

Unlike too the potions in fashion at present,
  This Wellington nostrum, restoring by stealth,
So purges the memory of all that's unpleasant,
  That patients forget themselves into rude health.
For instance, the inventor—his having once said
  "He should think himself mad if at any one's call,
"He became what he is"—is so purged from his head
  That he now doesnt think he's a madman at all.
Of course, for your memories of very long standing—
  Old chronic diseases that date back undaunted
To Brian Boroo and Fitz-Stephens' first landing—
  A devil of a dose of the Lethe is wanted.

But even Irish patients can hardly regret
  An oblivion so much in their own native style,
So conveniently planned that, whate'er they forget,
  They may go on remembering it still all the while!

A CHARACTERLESS

1834.

Half Whig, half Tory, like those mid-way things,
'Twixt bird and beast, that by mistake have wings;
A mongrel Stateman, 'twixt two factions nurst,
Who, of the faults of each, combines the worst—
The Tory's loftiness, the Whigling's sneer,
The leveller's rashness, and the bigot's fear:
The thirst for meddling, restless still to show
How Freedom's clock, repaired by Whigs, will go;
The alarm when others, more sincere than they,
Advance the hands to the true time of day.

By Mother Church, high-fed and haughty dame,
The boy was dandled, in his dawn of fame;
Listening, she smiled, and blest the flippant tongue
On which the fate of unborn tithe-pigs hung.
Ah! who shall paint the grandam's grim dismay,
When loose Reform enticed her boy away;
When shockt she heard him ape the rabble's tone,
And in Old Sarum's fate foredoom her own!
Groaning she cried, while tears rolled down her cheeks,
"Poor, glib-tongued youth, he means not what he speaks.
"Like oil at top, these Whig professions flow,
"But, pure as lymph, runs Toryism below.
"Alas! that tongue should start thus, in the race,
"Ere mind can reach and regulate its pace!—
"For, once outstript by tongue, poor, lagging mind,
"At every step, still further limps behind.
"But, bless the boy!—whate'er his wandering be,
"Still turns his heart to Toryism and me.
"Like those odd shapes, portrayed in Dante's lay.
"With heads fixt on, the wrong and backward way,
"His feet and eyes pursue a diverse track,
"While those march onward, these look fondly back."
And well she knew him—well foresaw the day,
Which now hath come, when snatched from Whigs away
The self-same changeling drops the mask he wore,
And rests, restored, in granny's arms once more.

But whither now, mixt brood of modern light
And ancient darkness, canst thou bend thy flight?
Tried by both factions and to neither true,
Feared by the old school, laught at by the new;
For this too feeble and for that too rash,
This wanting more of fire, that less of flash,
Lone shalt thou stand, in isolation cold,
Betwixt two worlds, the new one and the old,
A small and "vext Bermoothes," which the eye
Of venturous seaman sees—and passes by.

A GHOST STORY.

To THE AIR OF "UNFORTUNATE MISS BAILEY."

1835.

Not long in bed had Lyndhurst lain,
  When, as his lamp burned dimly,
The ghosts of corporate bodies slain,[1]
  Stood by his bedside grimly.
Dead aldermen who once could feast,
  But now, themselves, are fed on,
And skeletons of mayors deceased,
  This doleful chorus led on:—
        Oh Lord Lyndhurst,
        "Unmerciful Lord Lyndhurst,
          "Corpses we,
          "All burkt by thee,
        "Unmerciful Lord Lyndhurst!"

"Avaunt, ye frights!" his Lordship cried,
  "Ye look most glum and whitely."
"Ah, Lyndhurst dear!" the frights replied,
  "You've used us unpolitely.
"And now, ungrateful man! to drive
  "Dead bodies from your door so,
"Who quite corrupt enough, alive,
  "You've made by death still more so.
        "Oh, Ex-Chancellor,
      "Destructive Ex-Chancellor,
        "See thy work,
        "Thou second Burke,
      "Destructive Ex-Chancellor!"

Bold Lyndhurst then, whom naught could keep
  Awake or surely that would,
Cried "Curse you all"—fell fast asleep—
  And dreamt of "Small v. Attwood."
While, shockt, the bodies flew downstairs,
  But courteous in their panic
Precedence gave to ghosts of mayors,
  And corpses aldermanic,
      Crying, "Oh, Lord Lyndhurst,
      "That terrible Lord Lyndhurst,
        "Not Old Scratch
        "Himself could match
      "That terrible Lord Lyndhurst."

[1] Referring to the line taken by Lord Lyndhurst, on the question of Municipal Reform.

THOUGHTS ON THE LATE DESTRUCTIVE PROPOSITIONS OF THE TORIES.[1]

BY A COMMON-COUNCILMAN.

1835.

I sat me down in my easy chair,
  To read, as usual, the morning papers;
But—who shall describe my look of despair,
  When I came to Lefroy's "destructive" capers!
That he—that, of all live men, Lefroy
Should join in the cry "Destroy, destroy!"
Who, even when a babe, as I've heard said,
On Orange conserve was chiefly fed,
And never, till now, a movement made
That wasnt manfully retrograde!
Only think—to sweep from the light of day
Mayors, maces, criers and wigs away;
To annihilate—never to rise again—
A whole generation of aldermen,
Nor leave them even the accustomed tolls,
To keep together their bodies and souls!—
At a time too when snug posts and places
  Are falling away from us one by one,
Crash—crash—like the mummy-cases
  Belzoni, in Egypt, sat upon,
Wherein lay pickled, in state sublime,
Conservatives of the ancient time;—
To choose such a moment to overset
The few snug nuisances left us yet;
To add to the ruin that round us reigns,
By knocking out mayors' and town-clerks' brains;
By dooming all corporate bodies to fall,
Till they leave at last no bodies at all—
Naught but the ghosts of by-gone glory,
Wrecks of a world that once was Tory!—
Where pensive criers, like owls unblest,
  Robbed of their roosts, shall still hoot o'er them:
  Nor mayors shall know where to seek a nest,
  Till Gaily Knight shall find one for them;—
Till mayors and kings, with none to rue 'em,
  Shall perish all in one common plague;
And the sovereigns of Belfast and Tuam
  Must join their brother, Charles Dix, at Prague.

Thus mused I, in my chair, alone,
(As above described) till dozy grown,
And nodding assent to my own opinions,
I found myself borne to sleep's dominions,
Where, lo! before my dreaming eyes,
A new House of Commons appeared to rise,
Whose living contents, to fancy's survey,
Seemed to me all turned topsy-turvy—
A jumble of polypi—nobody knew
Which was the head or which the queue.
Here, Inglis, turned to a sansculotte,
Was dancing the hays with Hume and Grote;
There, ripe for riot, Recorder Shaw
Was learning from Roebuck "Çaira:"
While Stanley and Graham, as poissarde wenches,
Screamed "à-bas!" from the Tory benches;
And Peel and O'Connell, cheek by jowl,
Were dancing an Irish carmagnole.

The Lord preserve us!—if dreams come true,
What is this hapless realm to do?

[1] These verses were written in reference to the Bill brought in at this time, for the reform of Corporations, and the sweeping amendments proposed by Lord Lyndhurst and other Tory Peers, in order to obstruct the measure.

ANTICIPATED MEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION IN THE YEAR 1836.

1836

After some observations from Dr. M'Grig
On that fossil reliquium called Petrified Wig,
Or Perruquolithus—a specimen rare
Of those wigs made for antediluvian wear,
Which, it seems, stood the Flood without turning a hair—
Mr. Tomkins rose up, and requested attention
To facts no less wondrous which he had to mention.

Some large fossil creatures had lately been found,
Of a species no longer now seen above ground,
But the same (as to Tomkins most clearly appears)
With those animals, lost now for hundreds of years,
Which our ancestors used to call "Bishops" and "Peers,"
But which Tomkins more erudite names has bestowed on,
Having called the Peer fossil the Aris-tocratodon,[1]
And, finding much food under t'other one's thorax,
Has christened that creature the Episcopus Vorax.

Lest the savantes and dandies should think this all fable,
Mr. Tomkins most kindly produced, on the table,
A sample of each of these species of creatures,
Both tolerably human, in structure and features,
Except that the Episcopus seems, Lord deliver us!
To've been carnivorous as well as granivorous;
And Tomkins, on searching its stomach, found there
Large lumps, such as no modern stomach could bear,
Of a substance called Tithe, upon which, as 'tis said,
The whole Genus Clericum formerly fed;
And which having lately himself decompounded,
Just to see what 'twas made of, he actually found it
Composed of all possible cookable things
That e'er tript upon trotters or soared upon wings—
All products of earth, both gramineous, herbaceous,
Hordeaceous, fabaceous and eke farinaceous,
All clubbing their quotas, to glut the oesophagus
Of this ever greedy and grasping Tithophagus.[2]
"Admire," exclaimed Tomkins. "the kind dispensation
"By Providence shed on this much-favored nation,
"In sweeping so ravenous a race from the earth,
"That might else have occasioned a general dearth—
"And thus burying 'em, deep as even Joe Hume would sink 'em,
"With the Ichthyosaurus and Paloeorynchum,
"And other queer ci-devant things, under ground—
"Not forgetting that fossilized youth,[3] so renowned,
"Who lived just to witness the Deluge—was gratified
"Much by the sight, and has since been found stratified!"

This picturesque touch—quite in Tomkins's way—
Called forth from the savantes a general hurrah;
While inquiries among them, went rapidly round,
As to where this young stratified man could be found.
The "learned Theban's" discourse next as livelily flowed on,
To sketch t'other wonder, the _Aris_tocratodon—
An animal, differing from most human creatures
Not so much in speech, inward structure or features,
As in having a certain excrescence, T. said,
Which in form of a coronet grew from its head,
And devolved to its heirs, when the creature was dead;
Nor mattered it, while this heirloom was transmitted,
How unfit were the heads, so the coronet fitted.

He then mentioned a strange zoölogical fact,
Whose announcement appeared much applause to attract.
In France, said the learned professor, this race
Had so noxious become, in some centuries' space,
From their numbers and strength, that the land was o'errun with 'em,
Every one's question being, "What's to be done with em?"
When, lo! certain knowing ones—savans, mayhap,
Who, like Buckland's deep followers, understood trap,[4]
Slyly hinted that naught upon earth was so good
For _Aris_tocratodons, when rampant and rude,
As to stop or curtail their allowance of food.
This expedient was tried and a proof it affords
Of the effect that short commons will have upon lords;
For this whole race of bipeds, one fine summer's morn,
Shed their coronets, just as a deer sheds his horn,
And the moment these gewgaws fell off, they became
Quite a new sort of creature—so harmless and tame,
That zoölogists might, for the first time, maintain 'em
To be near akin to the genius humanum,
And the experiment, tried so successfully then,
Should be kept in remembrance when wanted again.

[1] A term formed on the model of the Mastodon, etc.

[2] The zoölogical term for a tithe-eater.

[3] The man found by Scheuchzer, and supposed by him to have witnessed the Deluge ("homo diluvii testis"), but who turned out, I am sorry to say, to be merely a great lizard.

[4] Particularly the formation called Transition Trap.

* * * * *

SONG OF THE CHURCH.

No. 1.

LEAVE ME ALONE.

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

"We are ever standing on the defensive. All that we say to them is, 'leave us alone.' The Established Church is part and parcel of the constitution of this country. You are bound to conform to this constitution. We ask of you nothing more:—let us alone." —Letter in The Times, Nov. 1838.

1838.

Come, list to my pastoral tones,
  In clover my shepherds I keep;
My stalls are well furnisht with drones,
  Whose preaching invites one to sleep.
At my spirit let infidels scoff,
  So they leave but the substance my own;
For in sooth I'm extremely well off
  If the world will but let me alone.

Dissenters are grumblers, we know;—
  Tho' excellent men in their way,
They never like things to be so,
  Let things be however they may.
But dissenting's a trick I detest;
  And besides 'tis an axiom well known,
The creed that's best paid is the best,
  If the _un_paid would let it alone.

To me, I own, very surprising
  Your Newmans and Puseys all seem,
Who start first with rationalizing,
  Then jump to the other extreme.
Far better, 'twixt nonsense and sense,
  A nice half-way concern, like our own,
Where piety's mixt up with pence,
  And the latter are ne'er left alone.

Of all our tormentors, the Press is
  The one that most tears us to bits;
And now, Mrs. Woolfrey's "excesses"
  Have thrown all its imps into fits.
The devils have been at us, for weeks,
  And there's no saying when they'll have done;—
Oh dear! how I wish Mr. Breeks
  Had left Mrs. Woolfrey alone!

If any need pray for the dead,
  'Tis those to whom post-obits fall;
Since wisely hath Solomon said,
  'Tis "money that answereth all."
But ours be the patrons who live;-
  For, once in their glebe they are thrown,
The dead have no living to give,
  And therefore we leave them alone.

Tho' in morals we may not excel,
  Such perfection is rare to be had;
A good life is, of course, very well,
  But good living is also-not bad.
And when, to feed earth-worms, I go.
Let this epitaph stare from my stone,
"Here lies the Right Rev. so and so;
  "Pass, stranger, and—leave him alone."

EPISTLE FROM HENRY OF EXETER TO JOHN OF TUAM.

Dear John, as I know, like our brother of London,
You've sipt of all knowledge, both sacred and mundane,
No doubt, in some ancient Joe Miller, you've read
What Cato, that cunning old Roman, once said—
That he ne'er saw two reverend sooth-say ers meet,
Let it be where it might, in the shrine or the street,
Without wondering the rogues, mid their solemn grimaces,
Didnt burst out a laughing in each other's faces.
What Cato then meant, tho' 'tis so long ago,
Even we in the present times pretty well know;
Having soothsayers also, who—sooth to say, John—
Are no better in some points than those of days gone,
And a pair of whom, meeting (between you and me),
Might laugh in their sleeves, too—all lawn tho' they be.

But this, by the way—my intention being chiefly
In this, my first letter, to hint to you briefly,
That, seeing how fond you of Tuum[1] must be,
While Meum's at all times the main point with me,
We scarce could do better than form an alliance,
To set these sad Anti-Church times at defiance:
You, John, recollect, being still to embark,
With no share in the firm but your title and mark;
Or even should you feel in your grandeur inclined
To call yourself Pope, why, I shouldnt much mind;
While my church as usual holds fast by your Tuum,
And every one else's, to make it all Suum.

Thus allied, I've no doubt we shall nicely agree,
As no twins can be liker, in most points, than we;
Both, specimens choice of that mixt sort of beast,
(See Rev. xiii. I) a political priest:
Both mettlesome chargers, both brisk pamphleteers,
Ripe and ready for all that sets men by the ears;
And I, at least one, who would scorn to stick longer
By any given cause than I found it the stronger,
And who, smooth in my turnings, as if on a swivel,
When the tone ecclesiastic wont do, try the civil.

In short (not to bore you, even jure divino)
We've the same cause in common, John—all but the rhino;
And that vulgar surplus, whate'er it may be,
As you're not used to cash, John, you'd best leave to me.
And so, without form—as the postman wont tarry—
I'm, dear Jack of Tuain,
  Yours,
    EXETER HARRY.

[1] So spelled in those ancient versicles which John, we understand,
frequently chants:—
  "Had every one Suum,
  You wouldnt have Tuum,
  But I should have Meum,
  And sing Te Deum."

SONG OF OLD PUCK.

    "And those things do best please me,
    That befall preposterously."
    PUCK Junior, Midsummer Night's Dream.

Who wants old Puck? for here am I,
A mongrel imp, 'twixt earth and sky,
Ready alike to crawl or fly;
Now in the mud, now in the air,
And, so 'tis for mischief, reckless where.

As to my knowledge, there's no end to't,
For, where I haven't it, I pretend to't:
And, 'stead of taking a learned degree
At some dull university,
Puck found it handier to commence
With a certain share of impudence,
Which passes one off as learned and clever,
Beyond all other degrees whatever;
And enables a man of lively sconce
To be Master of all the Arts at once.
No matter what the science may be—
Ethics, Physics, Theology,
Mathematics, Hydrostatics,
Aerostatics or Pneumatics—
Whatever it be, I take my luck,
'Tis all the same to ancient Puck;
Whose head's so full of all sorts of wares,
That a brother imp, old Smugden, swears
If I had but of law a little smattering,
I'd then be perfect—which is flattering.

My skill as a linguist all must know
Who met me abroad some months ago;
(And heard me abroad exceedingly,
In the moods and tenses of parlez vous)
When, as old Chambaud's shade stood mute,
I spoke such French to the Institute
As puzzled those learned Thebans much,
To know if 'twas Sanscrit or High Dutch,
And might have past with the unobserving
As one of the unknown tongues of Irving.
As to my talent for ubiquity,
There's nothing like it in all antiquity.
Like Mungo (my peculiar care)
"I'm here, I'm dere, I'm ebery where."

If any one's wanted to take the chair
Upon any subject, any where,
Just look around, and—Puck is there!
When slaughter's at hand, your bird of prey
Is never known to be out of the way:
And wherever mischief's to be got,
There's Puck instanter, on the spot.

Only find me in negus and applause,
And I'm your man for any cause.
If wrong the cause, the more my delight;
But I dont object to it, even when right,
If I only can vex some old friend by't;
There's Durham, for instance;—to worry him
Fills up my cup of bliss to the brim!

(NOTE BY THE EDITOR.)

Those who are anxious to run a muck
Cant do better than join with Puck.
They'll find him bon diable—spite of his phiz—
And, in fact, his great ambition is,
While playing old Puck in first-rate style,
To be thought Robin Good-fellow all the while.

POLICE REPORTS.

CASE OF IMPOSTURE.

Among other stray flashmen disposed of, this week,
  Was a youngster named Stanley, genteelly connected,
Who has lately been passing off coins as antique,
  Which have proved to be sham ones, tho' long unsuspected.

The ancients, our readers need hardly be told,
  Had a coin they called "Talents," for wholesale demands;
And 'twas some of said coinage this youth was so bold
  As to fancy he'd got, God knows how, in his hands.

People took him, however, like fools, at his word;
  And these talents (all prized at his own valuation,)
Were bid for, with eagerness even more absurd
  Than has often distinguisht this great thinking nation.

Talk of wonders one now and then sees advertised,
  "Black swans"—"Queen Anne farthings"—or even "a child's caul"—
Much and justly as all these rare objects are prized,
  "Stanley's talents" outdid them—swans, farthings and all!

At length some mistrust of this coin got abroad;
  Even quondam believers began much to doubt of it;
Some rung it, some rubbed it, suspecting a fraud—
  And the hard rubs it got rather took the shine out of it.

Others, wishing to break the poor prodigy's fall,
  Said 'twas known well to all who had studied the matter,
That the Greeks had not only great talents but small,
  And those found on the youngster were clearly the latter.

While others who viewed the grave farce with a grin—
  Seeing counterfeits pass thus for coinage so massy,
By way of a hint to the dolts taken in,
  Appropriately quoted Budaeus "de Asse."

In short, the whole sham by degrees was found out,
  And this coin which they chose by such fine names to call,
Proved a mere lackered article—showy, no doubt,
  But, ye gods! not the true Attic Talent at all.

As the impostor was still young enough to repent,
  And, besides, had some claims to a grandee connection,
Their Worships—considerate for once—only sent
  The young Thimblerig off to the House of Correction.

REFLECTIONS.

ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ARTICLE OF THE CHURCH IN THE LAST NUMBER OF The Quarterly Review.

I'm quite of your mind;—tho' these Pats cry aloud
  That they've got "too much Church," 'tis all nonsense and stuff;
For Church is like Love, of which Figaro vowed
  That even too much of it's not quite enough.

Ay! dose them with parsons, 'twill cure all their ills;—
  Copy Morrison's mode when from pill-box undaunted he
Pours thro' the patient his black-coated pills,
  Nor cares what their quality, so there's but quantity.

I verily think 'twould be worth England's while
  To consider, for Paddy's own benefit, whether
'Twould not be as well to give up the green isle
  To the care, wear and tear of the Church altogether.

The Irish are well used to treatment so pleasant;
  The harlot Church gave them to Henry Plantagenet,[1]
And now if King William would make them a present
  To t'other chaste lady—ye Saints, just imagine it!

Chief Secs., Lord-Lieutenants, Commanders-in-chief,
  Might then all be culled from the episcopal benches;
While colonels in black would afford some relief
  From the hue that reminds one of the old scarlet wench's.

Think how fierce at a charge (being practised therein)
  The Right Reverend Brigadier Phillpotts would slash on!
How General Blomfield, thro' thick and thro' thin,
  To the end of the chapter (or chapters) would dash on!

For in one point alone do the amply fed race
  Of bishops to beggars similitude bear—
That, set them on horseback, in full steeple chase,
  And they'll ride, if not pulled up in time—you know where.

But, bless you! in Ireland, that matters not much,
  Where affairs have for centuries gone the same way;
And a good stanch Conservative's system is such
  That he'd back even Beelzebub's long-founded sway.

I am therefore, dear Quarterly, quite of your mind;—
  Church, Church, in all shapes, into Erin let's pour:
And the more she rejecteth our medicine so kind.
  The more let's repeat it—"Black dose, as before."

Let Coercion, that peace-maker, go hand in hand
  With demure-eyed Conversion, fit sister and brother;
And, covering with prisons and churches the land,
  All that won't go to one, we'll put into the other.

For the sole, leading maxim of us who're inclined
  To rule over Ireland, not well but religiously,
Is to treat her like ladies who've just been confined
  (Or who ought to be so), and to church her prodigiously.

[1] Grant of Ireland to Henry II. by Pope Adrian.

NEW GRAND EXHIBITION OF MODELS OF THE TWO HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT.

Come, step in, gentlefolks, here ye may view
  An exact and natural representation
(Like Siburn's Model of Waterloo[1])
  Of the Lords and Commons of this here nation.

There they are—all cut out in cork—
  The "Collective Wisdom" wondrous to see;
My eyes! when all them heads are at work,
  What a vastly weighty consarn it must be.

As for the "wisdom,"—that may come anon;
  Tho', to say truth, we sometimes see
(And I find the phenomenon no uncommon 'un)
  A man who's M.P. with a head that's M.T.

Our Lords are rather too small, 'tis true;
  But they do well enough for Cabinet shelves;
And, besides,—what's a man with creeturs to do
  That make such werry small figures themselves?

There—dont touch those lords, my pretty dears—(Aside.)
  Curse the children!—this comes of reforming a nation:
Those meddling young brats have so damaged my peers,
  I must lay in more cork for a new creation.

Them yonder's our bishops—"to whom much is given,"
  And who're ready to take as much more as you please:
The seers of old time saw visions of heaven,
  But these holy seers see nothing but Sees.

Like old Atlas[2](the chap, in Cheapside, there below,)
  'Tis for so much per cent, they take heaven on their shoulders;
And joy 'tis to know that old High Church and Co.,
  Tho' not capital priests, are such capital-holders.

There's one on 'em, Phillpotts, who now is away,
  As we're having him filled with bumbustible stuff,
Small crackers and squibs, for a great gala-day,
  When we annually fire his Right Reverence off.

'Twould do your heart good, ma'am, then to be by,
  When, bursting with gunpowder, 'stead of with bile,
Crack, crack, goes the bishop, while dowagers cry,
  "How like the dear man, both in matter and style!"

Should you want a few Peers and M.P.s, to bestow,
  As presents to friends, we can recommend these:—
Our nobles are come down to nine-pence, you know,
  And we charge but a penny a piece for M.P.s.

Those of bottle-corks made take most with the trade,
  (At least 'mong such as my Irish writ summons,)
Of old whiskey corks our O'Connells are made,
  But those we make Shaws and Lefroys of, are rum 'uns.
    So, step in, gentlefolks, etc.
        Da Capo.

[1] One of the most interesting and curious of all the exhibitions of the day.

[2] The sign of the Insurance Office in Cheapside.

ANNOUNCEMENT OF A NEW GRAND ACCELERATION COMPANY FOR THE PROMOTION OF THE SPEED OF LITERATURE.

Loud complaints being made in these quick-reading times,
Of too slack a supply both of prose works and rhymes,
A new Company, formed on the keep-moving plan,
First proposed by the great firm of Catch-'em-who-can,
Beg to say they've now ready, in full wind and speed,
Some fast-going authors, of quite a new breed—
Such as not he who runs but who gallops may read—
And who, if well curried and fed, they've no doubt,
Will beat even Bentley's swift stud out and out.

It is true in these days such a drug is renown,
We've "Immortals" as rife as M.P.s about town;
And not a Blue's rout but can offhand supply
Some invalid bard who's insured "not to die."
Still let England but once try our authors, she'll find
How fast they'll leave even these Immortals behind;
And how truly the toils of Alcides were light,
Compared with his toil who can read all they write.

In fact there's no saying, so gainful the trade,
How fast immortalities now may be made;
Since Helicon never will want an "Undying One,"
As long as the public continues a Buying One;
And the company hope yet to witness the hour.
When, by strongly applying the mare-motive[1] power,
A three-decker novel, midst oceans of praise,
May be written, launched, read and—forgot, in three days!

In addition to all this stupendous celerity,
Which—to the no small relief of posterity—
Pays off at sight the whole debit of fame,
Nor troubles futurity even with a name
(A project that wont as much tickle Tom Tegg as us,
Since 'twill rob him of his second-priced Pegasus);
We, the Company—still more to show how immense
Is the power o'er the mind of pounds, shillings, and pence;
And that not even Phoebus himself, in our day,
Could get up a lay without first an out-lay—
Beg to add, as our literature soon may compare,
In its quick make and vent, with our Birmingham ware,
And it doesnt at all matter in either of these lines,
How sham is the article, so it but shines,—
We keep authors ready, all perched, pen in hand,
To write off, in any given style, at command.
No matter what bard, be he living or dead,
Ask a work from his pen, and 'tis done soon as said:
There being on the establishment six Walter Scotts,
One capital Wordsworth and Southeys in lots;—
Three choice Mrs. Nortons, all singing like syrens,
While most of our pallid young clerks are Lord Byrons.
Then we've ***s and ***s (for whom there's small call),
And ***s and ***s (for whom no call at all).
In short, whosoe'er the last "Lion" may be,
We've a Bottom who'll copy his roar[2] to a T,
And so well, that not one of the buyers who've got 'em
Can tell which is lion, and which only Bottom.

N. B.—The company, since they set up in this line,
Have moved their concern and are now at the sign
Of the Muse's Velocipede, Fleet Street, where all
Who wish well to the scheme are invited to call.

[1] "'Tis money makes the mare to go."

[2] "Bottom: Let me play the lion; I will roar you as 'twere any nightingale."

SOME ACCOUNT OF THE LATE DINNER TO DAN.

From tongue to tongue the rumor flew;
All askt, aghast, "Is't true? is't true?"
  But none knew whether 'twas fact or fable:
And still the unholy rumor ran,
From Tory woman to Tory man,
  Tho' none to come at the truth was able—
Till, lo! at last, the fact came out,
The horrible fact, beyond all doubt,
  That Dan had dined at the Viceroy's table;
Had flesht his Popish knife and fork
In the heart of the Establisht mutton and pork!

Who can forget the deep sensation
That news produced in this orthodox nation?
Deans, rectors, curates, all agreed,
If Dan was allowed at the Castle to feed,
'Twas clearly all up with the Protestant creed!
There hadnt indeed such an apparition
  Been heard of in Dublin since that day
When, during the first grand exhibition
  Of Don Giovanni, that naughty play,
There appeared, as if raised by necromancers,
An extra devil among the dancers!
Yes—every one saw with fearful thrill
That a devil too much had joined the quadrille;
And sulphur was smelt and the lamps let fall
A grim, green light o'er the ghastly ball,
And the poor sham devils didnt like it at all;
For they knew from whence the intruder had come,
Tho' he left, that night, his tail at home.

This fact, we see, is a parallel case
To the dinner that some weeks since took place.
With the difference slight of fiend and man,
  It shows what a nest of Popish sinners
That city must be, where the devil and Dan
  May thus drop in at quadrilles and dinners!

But mark the end of these foul proceedings,
These demon hops and Popish feedings.
Some comfort 'twill be—to those, at least,
  Who've studied this awful dinner question—
To know that Dan, on the night of that feast,
  Was seized with a dreadful indigestion;
That envoys were sent post-haste to his priest
To come and absolve the suffering sinner,
For eating so much at a heretic dinner;
And some good people were even afraid
That Peel's old confectioner—still at the trade—
Had poisoned the Papist with orangeade.

NEW HOSPITAL FOR SICK LITERATI.

With all humility we beg
To inform the public, that Tom Tegg—
Known for his spunky speculations
In buying up dead reputations,
And by a mode of galvanizing
Which, all must own, is quite surprising,
Making dead authors move again,
As tho' they still were living men;—
All this too managed, in a trice,
By those two magic words, "Half Price,"
Which brings the charm so quick about,
That worn-out poets, left without
A second foot whereon to stand,
Are made to go at second hand;—
'Twill please the public, we repeat,
To learn that Tegg who works this feat,
And therefore knows what care it needs
To keep alive Fame's invalids,
Has oped an Hospital in town,
For cases of knockt-up renown—
Falls, fractures, dangerous Epic fits
(By some called Cantoes), stabs from wits;
And of all wounds for which they're nurst,
Dead cuts from publishers, the worst;—
All these, and other such fatalities,
That happen to frail immortalities,
By Tegg are so expertly treated,
That oft-times, when the cure's completed,
The patient's made robust enough
To stand a few more rounds of puff,
Till like the ghosts of Dante's lay
He's puft into thin air away!
As titled poets (being phenomenons)
Dont like to mix with low and common 'uns,
Tegg's Hospital has separate wards,
Express for literary lords,
Where prose-peers, of immoderate length,
Are nurst, when they've outgrown their strength,
And poets, whom their friends despair of,
Are—put to bed and taken care of.

Tegg begs to contradict a story
Now current both with Whig and Tory,
That Doctor Warburton, M.P.,
Well known for his antipathy,
His deadly hate, good man, to all
The race of poets great and small—
So much, that he's been heard to own,
He would most willingly cut down
The holiest groves on Pindus' mount,
To turn the timber to account!—
The story actually goes, that he
Prescribes at Tegg's Infirmary;
And oft not only stints for spite
The patients in their copy-right,
But that, on being called in lately
To two sick poets suffering greatly,
This vaticidal Doctor sent them
So strong a dose of Jeremy Bentham,
That one of the poor bards but cried,
"Oh, Jerry, Jerry!" and then died;
While t'other, tho' less stuff was given,
Is on his road, 'tis feared, to heaven!

Of this event, howe'er unpleasant,
Tegg means to say no more at present,—
Intending shortly to prepare
A statement of the whole affair,
With full accounts, at the same time,
Of some late cases (prose and rhyme),
Subscribed with every author's name,
That's now on the Sick List of Fame.