Page images



Part of Mr. Whitbread's speech on the trial of Lord Melville,

put into verse by Canning at the time it was delivered. I'm like Archimedes for science and skill, I'm like a young prince going straight up a hill; I'm like (with respect to the fair be it said,) I'm like a young lady just bringing to bed. If you ask why the 11th of June I remember, Much better than April, or May, or November, On that day, my Lords, with truth, I assure ye, My sainted progenitor set up his brewery; On that day, in the morn, he began brewing beer: On that day, too, began his connubial career; On that day he received and he issued his bills; On that day he cleared out all the cash from his tills; On that day he died, having finished his summing, And the angels all cried, “ Here's old Whitbread a-coming!" So that day still I hail with a smile and a sigh, For his beer with an E, and his bier with an I; And still on that day, in the hottest of weather, The whole Whitbread family dine all together. So long as the beams of this house shall support The roof which o'ershades this respectable court, Where Hastings was tried for oppressing the Hindoos : So long as the sun shall shine in at those windows, My name shall shine bright as my ancestor's shines, Mine recorded in journals, his blazon'd on signs!

The Right Hon. George Canning.



Written after the late negotiation for a new ministry. KING CRACK was the best of all possible kings,

(At least so his courtiers would swear to you gladly,) But Crack now and then would do het’rodox things,

And, at last, took to worshipping images sadly.

Some broken-down idols, that long had been placed

In his Father's old Cabinet, pleased him so much, That he knelt down and worshipp'd, tho'—such was his

taste! They were monstrous to look at, and rotten to touch. And these were the beautiful gods of King Crack !

But his People, disdaining to worship such things, Cried aloud, one and all, “Come, your godships must pack

You'll not do for us, tho' you may do for Kings." Then, trampling these images under their feet,

They sent Crack a petition, beginning “Great Cæsar ! We're willing to worship; but only entreat

That you'll find us some decenter godheads than these


“I'll try,” says King Crack—so they furnish'd him models

Of better shaped gods, but he sent them all back; Some were chisellid too fine, some had heads 'stead of

noddles, In short they were all much too godlike for Crack.

So he took to his darling old idols again,

And, just mending their legs and new bronzing their faces, In open defiance of gods and of men, Set the monsters up grinning once more in their places.

Thomas Moore,



If hush'd the loud whirlwind that ruffled the deep,

The sky if no longer dark tempests deform,
When our perils are past, shall our gratitude sleep?

No-here's to the pilot that weather'd the storm :

At the footstool of Power let Flattery fawn;

Let Faction her idol extol to the skies; To Virtue in humble retirement withdrawn,

Unblamed may the accents of gratitude rise !

And shall not his memory to Britain be dear,

Whose example with envy all nations behold? A Statesman unbiass'd by interest or fear,

By power uncorrupted, untainted by gold ! Who, when terror and doubt thro' the universe reigned,

When rapine and treason their standards unfurl'd, The hearts and the hopes of his country maintained,

And our kingdom preserved midst the wreck of the world ! Unheeding, unthankful, we bask in the blaze,

While the beams of the sun in full majesty shine: When he sinks into twilight with fondness we gaze,

And mark the mild lustre that gilds his decline.
So, Pitt, when the course of thy greatness is o'er,

Thy talents, thy virtues, we fondly recall;
Now justly we prize thee, when lost we deplore;

Admired in thy zenith, but loved in thy fall.
O take then, for dangers by wisdom repell’d,

For evils by courage and constancy braved, O take, for the throne by thy counsels upheld,

The thanks of a people thy firmness has saved.
And oh! if again the rude whirlwind should rise,

The dawning of peace should fresh darkness deform;
The regrets of the good and the fears of the wise,
Shall turn to the pilot that weather'd the storm.

Right Hon. George Canning.



AYE, bear it hence, thou blessed child,

Though dire the burthen be,
And hide it in the pathless wild,

Or drown it in the sea :
The ruthless murderer prays and swears ;

So let him swear and pray ;
Be deaf to all his oaths and prayers,

And take the sword away.

We've had enough of fleets and camps,

Guns, glories, odes, gazettes,
Triumphal arches, coloured lamps,

Huzzas and epaulettes ;
We could not bear upon our head

Another leaf of bay;
That horrid Buonaparte's dead ;-

Yes, take the sword away.
We're weary of the noisy boasts

That pleased our patriot throngs: We've long been dull to Gooch's toasts,

And tame to Dibdin's songs;
We're quite content to rule the wave,

Without a great display;
We're known to be extremely brave;

But take the sword away.
We give a shrug, when fife and drum

Play up a favourite air;
We think our barracks are become

More ugly than they were;
We laugh to see the banners float;

We loathe the charger's bray;
We don't admire a scarlet coat;

Do take the sword away.

Let Portugal have rulers twain;

Let Greece go on with none;
Let Popery sink or swim in Spain,

While we enjoy the fun;
Let Turkey tremble at the knout;

Let Algiers lose her Dey;
Let Paris turn her Bourbons out;

Bah! take the sword away.

Our honest friends in Parliament

Are looking vastly sad;
Our farmers say with one consent

It's all immensely bad;
There was a time for borrowing,

But now it's time to pay;
A budget is a serious thing;

So take the sword away.

And O, the bitter tears we wept,

In those our days of fame, --
The dread, that o'er our heart-strings crept

With every post that came, --
The home-affections, waged and lost

In every far-off fray,
The price that British glory cost!

Ah! take the sword away.
We've plenty left to hoist the sail,

Or mount the dangerous breach;
And Freedom breathes in every gale,

That wanders round our beach.
When duty bids us dare or die,

We'll fight another day:
But till we know a reason why,
Take, take the sword away.

Winthrop M. Praed.




SLEEP, Mr. Speaker, 'tis surely fair
If you mayn’t in your bed, that you should in your chair;
Louder and longer still they grow,
Tory and Radical, Aye and No;
Talking by night and talking by day:
Sleep, Mr. Speaker-sleep while you may!
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; slumber lies
Light and brief on a Speaker's eyes.
Fielden or Finn in a minute or two
Some disorderly thing will do;
Riot will chase repose away-
Sleep, Mr. Speaker-sleep while you may!
Sleep, Mr. Speaker. Sweet to men
Is the sleep that cometh but now and then,
Sweet to the weary, sweet to the ill,
Sweet to the children that work in the mill.
You have more need of repose than they-
Sleep, Mr. Speaker-sleep while you may!

[ocr errors]
« PreviousContinue »