Of leading this grave House of Peers, by their noses, My lords, on the question before us at present, God forbid that your Lordships should knuckle to me; I own, of our Protestant laws I am jealous, And, long as God spares me, will always maintain, That, once having taken men's rights, or umbrellas, We ne'er should consent to restore them again. What security have you, ye Bishops and Peers, If thus you give back Mr Bell's parapluie, That he may n't, with its stick, come about all your ears, And then-where would your Protestant periwigs be? No, heav'n be my judge, were I dying to-day, Ere I dropp'd in the grave, like a medlar that's mellow, « For God's sake»-at that awful moment I'd say« For God's sake, don't give Mr Bell his umbrella. >> [This address, says a ministerial journal, delivered with amazing emphasis and earnestness, occasioned an extraordinary sensation in the House. Nothing since the memorable address of the Duke of York has produced so remarkable an impression..] Thus, Erin! my love, do I show Thus quiet thee, mate of my bed! Alone can remove thy complaints;- Nothing's wanted to make it more pleasant But being hang'd, tortured, and shot, Much oftner than thou art at present. Even Wellington's self hath averr'd Thou art yet but half sabred and hung, And I loved him the more when I heard Such tenderness fall from his tongue. So take the five millions of pills, Dear partner, I herewith inclose; 'T is the cure that all quacks for thy ills, From Cromwell to Eldon, propose. And you, ye brave bullets, that go, How I wish that, before you set out, A PASTORAL BALLAD. BY JOHN BULL. Dublin, March 13, 1827.-Friday, after the arrival of the packet bringing the account of the defeat of the Catholic Question, in the House of Commons, orders were sent to the Pigeon House to forward 5,000,000 rounds of musket-ball cartridge to the different garrisons round the country.-Freeman's Journal. I HAVE found out a gift for my Erin, Is a dose that will do her more good. There is hardly a day of our lives But we read, in some amiable trials, One thinks, with his mistress or mate While another, whom Hymen has bless'd With a dose of the best Prussic acid. A LATE SCENE AT SWANAGE.' Regnis Ex-sul ademtis.-VIRG. To Swanage,—that neat little town, in whose bay Fair Thetis shows off, in her best silver slippers,Lord Bags took his annual trip t' other day, To taste the sea breezes, and chat with the dippers. There-learn'd as he is in conundrums and lawsQuoth he to his dame (whom he oft plays the wag on), «Why are chancery suitors like bathers?-Because Their suits are put off, till-they have n't a rag on. Thus on he went chatting,-but, lo' while he chats, With a face full of wonder around him he looks; For he misses his parsons, his dear shovel-hats, Who used to flock round him at Swanage like rooks. «How is this, Lady Bags?—to this region aquatic Last year they came swarming, to make me their bow, As thick as Burke's cloud o'er the vales of Carnatic, Deans, rectors, D.D.'s where the dev'l are they But don't you perceive, dear, the Church have found out « Ah, true-you have hit it-I am, indeed, one September, 1827. Wo, wo to the wag, who would laugh at such cookery!» Thus, from his perch, did I hear a black crow' Caw angrily out, while the rest of the rookery Open'd their bills, and re-echo'd « Wo, wo!»> WO! WO!! Wo, wo unto him who would check or disturb it,— Oh Farnham, Saint Farnham, how much do we owe thee! The old, as a catcher of Catholics, know thee, The young, as an amateur scourger of boys. Wo, wo to the man, who such doings would smother!- Though it was only old Bowdler's Velluti edition. And Saints keep her, now, in eternal hot water. Wo, wo to the man, who would check their career, Or stop the Millennium, that 's sure to await us, When, bless'd with an orthodox crop every year, We shall learn to raise Protestants, fast as potatoes. In kidnapping Papists, our rulers, we know, Had been trying their talent for many a day; Till Farnham, when all had been tried, came to show, Like the German flea-catcher, « anoder goot way.» And nothing's more simple than Farnham's receipt;— <«< Catch your Catholic first-soak him well in poteen 3 Add salary sauce, and the thing is complete, TOUT POUR LA TRIPE. If, in China or among the natives of India, we claimed civil advantages which were connected with religious usages, little as we might value those forms in our hearts, we should think common decency required us to abstain from treating them with offensive contamely; and, though unable to consider them sacred, we would not sneer at the name of Fot, or laugh at the imputed divinity of Visthnou.-Courier, Tuesday, Jan. 16. ༥ COME, take my advice, never trouble your cranium, In this world (let me hint in your organ auricular) Oh place me where Fo, or, as some call him, Fot, Is the god, from whom « civil advantages» flow, And you'll find, if there's any thing snug to be got, I shall soon be on excellent terms with old Fo. Or were I where Vishnu, that four-handed god, Is the quadruple giver of pensions and places, I own I should feel it unchristian and odd Not to find myself also in Vishnu's good graces. For oh, of all gods that humanely attend To our wants in this planet, the gods to wishes Are those that, like Vishnu and others, descend In the form, so attractive, of loaves and of fishes! So take my advice-for, if even the devil my Should tempt men again as an idol to try him, 'T were best for us Tories, even then, to be civil, As nobody doubts we should get something by him. ENIGMA. Monstrum nulla virtute redemptum. COME, riddle-me-ree, come, riddle-me-ree, I am nearly one hundred and thirty years old, And therefore no chicken, as you may suppose;— You may serve up your Protestant, smoking and Though a dwarf in my youth (as my nurses have told), clean.»> Suggested by a speech of the Bishop of Chester on the subject of the New Reformation in Ireland, in which his Lordship denounced Wo! Wo! Wo! pretty al undantly on all those who dared to interfere with its progress. The inextinguishable fire of St Bridget, at Kildare. 1 Whiskey. 4. We understand that several applications have lately been made to the Protestant clergymen of this town by fellows, inquiring, What are they giving a head for converts.' s—Wexford Post. I have, ev'ry year since, been outgrowing my clothes; Till, at last, such a corpulent giant I stand, That, if folks were to furnish me now with a suit, It would take ev'ry morsel of scrip in the land But to measure my bulk from the head to the foot. Hence, they who maintain me, grown sick of my stature, To cover me nothing but rags will supply; Of the Rook species-Corvus frugilegus, i. e. a great consumer of corn. 2 Vishnu was (as Sir W. Jones calls him) a pisciform god,.-bis first Avatar being in the shape of a fish, And the doctors declare that, in due course of nature, About the 30 in rags I shall die. year Meanwhile, I stalk hungry and bloated around, An object of int'rest, most painful, to all; In the warehouse, the cottage, the palace I'm found, When the lord of the counting-house bends o'er his book, Bright pictures of profit delighting to draw, And expects through another to caper and prank it, His My maw with the fruits of the Squirearcby's acres, And, knowing who made me the thing that I am, Like the monster of Frankenstein, worry my makers. Then riddle-me-ree, come, riddle-me-ree, And tell, if thou know'st, who I may be. DOG-DAY REFLECTIONS. BY A DANDY KEPT IN TOWN. Vox clamantis in deserto. SAID Malthus, one day, to a clown Lying stretch'd on the beach, in the sun, « What's the number of souls in this town?»The number! Lord bless you, there's none. « We have nothing but dabs in this place, Of them a great plenty there are ; But the soles, please your rev'rence and grace, Are all t' other side of the bar.»> And so 't is in London just now, Not a soul to be seen, up or down ;- But Are the only loose fish that are going. That some weeks ago, kept us merry? Wise Marquis, how much the Lord May'r, It being his task to take care That such animals sha'n't go unmuzzled. One of the shows of London. THE Thou, too, whose political toils Are so worthy a captain of horse,Whose amendments (like honest Sir Boyle's) Are « amendments, that make matters worse; Great Chieftain, who takest such pains To prove what is granted, nem. con.— And, thou, too, my Redesdale, ah, where With Redesdale's five quarters of mutton? 3 Why, why have ye taken your flight, As that precious one, « This is too bad!» LIVING DOG AND THE DEAD LION.. NEXT week will be published (as « Lives» are the rage) The whole Reminiscences, wondrous and strange, Of a small puppy-dog, that lived once in the cage Of the late noble Lion at Exeter 'Change. Though the dog is a dog of the kind they call « sad,= 'T is a puppy that much to good breeding pretends; And few dogs have such opportunities had Of knowing how Lions behave-among friends. How that animal cats, how he snores, how he drinks, Is all noted down by this Boswell so small; And 't is plain, from each sentence, the puppy-dog thinks That the Lion was no such great things after all. Though he roar'd pretty well-this the puppy allows It was all, he says, borrow'd-all second-hand roar; And he vastly prefers his own little bow-wows To the loftiest war-note the Lion could pour. 'T is, indeed, as good fun as a Cynic could ask, To see how this cockney-bred setter of rabbits Takes gravely the Lord of the Forest to task, And judges of Lions by puppy-dog habits. More particularly his Grace's celebrated amendment to the Cors Bill. 2 From a speech of Sir Boyle Roche's, in the Irish House of Cam mons. The learning his Lordship displayed, on the subject of the butcher's fifth quarter of mutton, will not speedily be for gotten. 4 The nom de guerre under which Colman has written some of his best farces. Nay, fed as he was (and this makes it a dark case) However, the book's a good book, being rich in The Bulls, in hysterics-the Bears, just as bad- All shock'd to find out that that promising lad, Who 'I feed on them living, and foul them when THOUGHTS ON THE PRESENT GOVERNMENT WHAT! Miguel, not patriotic? oh, fy! OF IRELAND. OFT have I seen, in gay, equestrian pride, Some well-rouged youth round Astley's Circus ride So rides along, with canter smooth and pleasant, After so much good teaching, 't is quite a take-in, And round the ring,-each honour'd, as they go, Sir; First school'd, as you were, under Metternich's eye, And then (as young misses say) « finish'd» at Wind sor! I ne'er in my life knew a case that was harder;— Such feasts as you had, when you made us a call! Three courses each day from His Majesty's larder,— And now, to turn absolute Don, after all! Some authors, like Bayes, to the style and the matter Of each thing they write, suit the way that they dine Roast sirloin for Epic, broil'd devils for Satire, And hotchpotch and trifle for rhymes such as mine. That Rulers should feed the same way, I've no doubt;- Some Dons, too, have fancied (though this may be fable) A dish rather dear, if, in cooking, they blunder it;— Not content with the common hot meat on a table, They're partial (eh, Mig!) to a dish of cold under it! 2 With equal pressure from his gracious toe,- How blest, if neither steed would bolt or start; THE LIMBO OF LOST REPUTATIONS. A DREAM. Ciò che si perde quì, là si raguna.-Ariosto. A valley, where he sees Things that on earth were lost.-Milton. KNOW'ST thou not him' the poet sings, Who flew to the moon's serene domain, That vanish on earth, are found again- The promises great men strew about them; Of monarchs, who rule as well without them!— Like him, but diving with wing profound, I have been to a Limbo under ground, 1 Astolpho. Where characters lost on earth, (and cried, That even the imps would not purloin them, Of lost and torn-up reputations ;- Mislaid at innocent assignations; Some, that had sigh'd their last amen From the canting lips of saints that would be; And some once own'd by « the best of men,» Who had proved-no better than they should be. 'Mong others, a poet's fame I spied, Once shining fair, now soaked and black«No wonder,» (a dev'l at my elbow cried) <«<For I pick'd it out of a butt of sack!» Just then a yell was heard o'er head, Like a chimney-sweeper's lofty summons; And lo, an imp right downward sped, Bringing, within his claws so red, Two statesmen's characters, found, he said, Last night, on the floor of the House of Commons; The which, with black official grin, He now to the Chief Imp handed in;--- For their journey down, as you may suppose, And trying, though mischief laugh'd in his eye, M What a pity!» he cried-« so fresh its gloss, So long preserved-'t is a public loss! This comes of a man, the careless blockhead, HOW TO WRITE BY PROXY. Qui facit per alium facit per se. 'MONG our neighbours, the French, in the good olden time When nobility flourish'd, great Barons and Dukes The same is now done by our privileged class; For an author of History, thus he proceeds; First, scribbling his own stock of notions as well The Subaltern comes-sees his General seated, In all the self-glory of authorship swelling; « There, look,» saith his Lordship, «my work is com Well used to a breach, the brave Subaltern dreads At last, even this is achieved by his aid; Friend Subaltern pockets the cash and-the story. Drums beat-the new Grand March of Intellect play'd And off struts my Lord, the Historian, in glory! IMITATION OF THE INFERNO OF DANTE Così quel fiato gli spiriti mali Di quà, di là, di giù, di sù gli mena.-Inferno, cant. 5. I TURN'D my steps, and lo, a shadowy throng Or Lieutenant-General, as it may happen to be. 1 |