What was the lottery but an intake? —what
Horse-racing but a thing as fleet as wind?
What a good dinner but a prospect, that,

Evanishing, leaves nought save scraps behind?
What is rich wine but vapour? an old hat

But of some empty skull the cast-off rind:
All is deception-save REGINA's pages-
And deeds of those she calleth England's sages.

"There is a time for all things," saith wise Solomon,
(Vide Ecclesiastes, or the Preacher);

And surely none that knowledge lack can follow man
Who is more gifted, or experienced teacher.
Tut-tut, such themes we leave to surpliced jolly man,
Fed on his tithes and tenths 'tis he can reach her,
The coy jade Wisdom, though, as erst befell,
She domiciles far down in pebbled well.

"The bottom of a well! then much I fear

The parson dives not; had it been a barrel

Of ancient vintage- nay, of sparkling beer,

There had been, to be sure, less cause for quarrel." Thus scandal chatters; but we shall not hear,

Though sometimes wears the wolf the lamb's apparel; And Erudition, fond of fat and fun,

Dwells in a carcass weighing half a ton.

Sweet Public! O, you're a delicious creature!

'Pon honour, now, we couldn't live without you; You're so delectable in form and feature,

And such a fascination breathes about you,

That, though our death would leave a blank in nature,
We're so in love, gave you but cause to doubt you,
We would rather, dearest angel! we would rather -
Ah, grief would make us grey as our own father!

But, hark ye, sweeting! tell us, if you please,
Do tell us why you come to tell us so?
Once even at Colburn's Cad you did not sneeze,
And Macvey, the long-nosed, was once the go;
Nought now but we go down with you; hard pease,
Dry hermit's food, are London's monthly show;
And all your wooers daily, weekly, quarterly,
You strike with your derision cold quite martyrly.

You say we are improving - - we believe it; "Twere sin in us experienced to grow worse; Nay, offer not more cash- - we can't receive it; Be a kind creature now, put by your purse. There are lads from Grub Street would be fain to thieve it; There's many an orphan of the press to nurse; say no more words about it

But as for us

We live but for you, Public-who can doubt it?

We live but for our country!- O, ye Whigs!
Well do ye know that truth is firm and sure;

Fain had ye given our vineyard to the pigs,
And thought us "old and miserably poor."

We have shaken ye till fell both hats and wigs,

We have beat with judgment from your coats "the stoure" (See Dr. Jamieson), and we have brought

Your lordly gallop to a sober trot.

Where is your wisdom? - see Ex-Sheriff Parkins;
Where is your foresight?- see Hume's combinations;
Where your theology?-lo! Taylor hearkens,
Forth spluttering atheistic speculations;

O'er your high dons Derision's spittle barkens
With leprous crust; save deaths and desolations,

Nought waits your schemes; and Wonderment grows paler
Than parsnep to see Grey with Place the tailor.

Pooh for such trash! — bring towel here and water
Who handleth pitch, and comes off undefiled?
We have mark'd the modern Cains, both son and daughter,
Morgan's and mate's, each maid and mother's child-

(This stanza is O'Doherty's); and slaughter

Through their black ranks have made in ruin wild;

Till now we have nought to do but be jocose,

Or with a pin impale our pigmy foes.

Our friends their name is Legion; and our foes
Some fifteen, eighteen, or at most a score,
Who, had they pith, would tread on FRASER'S toes,
And, at tea-parties, vote old Noll a bore;
Tims, Gomery, and Attila, are of those,

Besides black Broom, a thing which we deplore,—
As he may shut the avenues of knowledge,

By sweeping sense from Cockneydom's own College.

Whigs are the boys for rectors,—the old Major,
Had he not died, had been the best alive;
But Gerald's friend is a most famous stager,

Than Brougham no neater hand could art contrive,
Even by whose sainted nose the students wager,
Chanting his lauds like drones within a hive;
And Hume Montrose's body, Dr. Joe,
Claps his bit wings o'er Aberdeen to crow.

O, dine them all,— oh, give the lads a dinner,

For feed they must, they'll pay ye in a speech,
Where shreds of common sense beat thin and thinner,
Like leaf-gold, more than fifty miles can reach ;
The price, too, is most moderate; you're a winner
Even by your fifteen shillings worth, for which
You have your beef and greens, your cheese and bisky,
Two pots of porter, and a glass of whisky.

But, come, we're getting too sedate and solemn,
The subject is so stupid; better far

It were to tell you, that this opening volume —
Our fifth one-will be found above all par;
We've had some blades in training, and enroll 'em
The first time now for literary war:

They've been at grass among the Blues and Yellows,
And, since their combs have grown, are clever fellows.

We dare not name them; else might prove a martyr
To our good nature, so we rather spare 'em;

But, since 'tis not forbidden in our charter,

Five Paddies and two Celts, we now declare 'em ;
The eighth's a Turk; the ninth one is a Tartar,
(His mother was duenna in the haram ;)
An African descended straight from Hannibal;
Besides two Zealanders, the one a cannibal.

Yet, though the Whigs so powerful are and mighty
Spouters of spindrift, measureless in lung,
Who with their cannonade of words can fight ye
As if cast-metal carronades they flung,

"

And with their bothering blarney they could fright ye,
"Dowre" fozzy-headed cattle, "auld and young;'
It must be owned, even by the Buff and Blue,
That we poor Tories have some prime ones too.

Have we not Eldon, patriarch of the law?

Him, whom each passing year a harvest due Of honours rich hath brought, whom nought can draw From rectitude's straight path,- nor drunken crew Of knaves, whose slanders move him not a straw; Nor traitor's cat-call, nor blasphemer's maw; No! there he stands- "Justitia" by his sideThe bad man's bugbear, and the good man's pride!

Have we not Scott, the great, the glorious bard?

Whose muse hath shed a halo round our shores, Whose giant-mind no obstacles retard,

As time's dim labyrinth its search explores ;He of his toils hath reap'd the high reward,

And of a new creation oped the doors, Where, to futurity's remotest day, Admiring pilgrims shall delight to stray!

And though old age hath o'er his reverend head Been scattering snows, and human strength is frail

To put aside the cup that all men dread,

Seldom hath one sojourned this earthly vale
With equal honour; glory hath been shed,

From poem, history, high romance, and tale,
Unfading, o'er our land by him: life's urn
May cool, but fame's will never cease to burn.

Have we not Wellington ?-have we not him

Who rescued Europe from oppression's thrall;
Before whose star Napoleon's star waned dim,
Exalting Britain o'er the heads of all

The nations round, high filling to the brim
The goblet of her glory? We may fall,

As Greece, as Rome have fallen; but ne'er shall die
Of Waterloo the glorious memory!

Greece in her grandest and her proudest hour-
Rome in her pomp and plenitude of pride,
With Cæsars on her throne, ne'er wielded power
Such as we wield: the realms by Ganges' side,
Back to the rising sun, are our rich dower;

And the far western isles our sway abide;
Our flag unfurls triumphant o'er the sea;
And, blessing of all blessings, we are free!

Free in the noblest sense, no tyrant king
Shakes o'er our shrinking heads the iron rod;
Free in the loftiest sense,- our spirits bring,
As conscience wills, their sacrifice to God;
Free in the genuine sense,- bright learning's wing
O'erspreads the land, and justice makes abode
Alike with all; the lofty and the low

From crime must keep them, or to law must bow.