Seven millions of Papists, no less, Dr Southey attacks, like a Turk; Dr Eady, less bold, I confess,

Attacks but his maid of all work."

Dr Southey, for his grand attack, Both a laureate and senator is; While poor Dr Eady, alack,

Has been had up to Bow-street, for his!

And truly, the law does so blunder,

That, though little blood has been spilt, he May probably suffer as, under

The Chalking Act, known to be guilty.

So much for the merits sublime

(With whose catalogue ne'er should I stop) Of the three greatest lights of our time,

Doctors Eady and Southey and Slop!

Should you ask me, to which of the three Great Doctors the preference should fall, As a matter of course, I agree

Dr Eady must go to the wall.

But, as Southey with laurels is crown'd,
And Slop with a wig and a tail is,
Let Eady's bright temples be bound
With a swinging « Corona Muralis!»3

EPITAPH ON A TUFT-HUNTER. LAMENT, lament, Sir Isaac Heard,

Put mourning round thy page, Debrett, For here lies one, who ne'er preferr'd A Viscount to a Marquis yet.

Beside him place the God of Wit,
Before him Beauty's rosiest girls,
Apollo for a star he 'd quit,

And Love's own sister for an Earl's.

Did niggard fate no peers afford,

He took, of course, to peers' relations; And, rather than not sport a lord,

Put up with even the last creations.

Even Irish names, could he but tag 'em

With « Lord» and « Duke,» were sweet to call; And, at a pinch, Lord Ballyraggum

Was better than no Lord at all.

This Seraphic Doctor, in the preface to his last work (Vindicia Ecclesia Anglicana), is pleased to anathematize not only all Catholics, but all advocates of Catholics:- They have for their immediate allies (be says) every faction that is banded against the State, every demagogue, every irreligious and seditious journalist, every open and every insidious enemy to Monarchy and to Christianity."

2 See the late accounts in the newspapers of the appearance of this gentleman at one of the police-offices, in consequence of an alleged assault on his maid-of-all-work.

A crown granted as a reward, among the Romans, to persons who performed any extraordinary exploits upon walls, such as scaling them, battering them, etc.-No doubt, writing upon them, to the extent Dr Eady does, would equally establish a claim to the honour.

Heaven grant him now some noble nook,
For, rest his soul, he 'd rather be
Genteelly damn'd beside a Duke,
Than saved in vulgar company.

ODE TO A HAT.

-altum

Edificat caput.-JUVENAL.

HAIL, reverend Hat!-sublime 'mid all
The minor felts that round thee grovel;-
Thou, that the Gods « a Delta» call,

While meaner mortals call thee << shovel.»>

When on thy shape (like pyramid,

Cut horizontally in two)'

I raptured gaze, what dreams, unbid,
Of stalls and mitres bless my view!
That brim of brims, so sleekly good,-

Not flapp'd, like dull Wesleyan's, down,
But looking (as all churchmen's should),
Devoutly upward-tow'rds the crown.
Gods! when I gaze upon that brim,

So redolent of church all over,
What swarms of Tithes, in vision dim,
Some, pig-tail'd-some, like cherubim,

With ducklings' wings-around it hover!
Tenths of all dead and living things,
That Nature into being brings,
From calves and corn to chitterlings.

Say, holy Hat, that last of cocks,
The very cock most orthodox,
To which, of all the well-fed throng
Of Zion, joy'st thou to belong?

Thou 'rt not Sir Harcourt Lee's-no

For hats grow like the heads that wear 'em; And hats, on heads like his, would grow Particularly harum-scarum.

Who knows but thou mayst deck the pate
Of that famed Doctor Adamthwaite
(The reverend rat, whom we saw stand
On his hind-legs in Westmoreland),
Who changed so quick from blue to yellow,
And would from yellow back to blue,
And back again, convenient fellow,
If 't were his interest so to do.

Or, haply, smartest of triangles,

Thou art the hat of Doctor Owen;
The hat that, to his vestry wrangles,

That venerable priest doth go in,-
And, then and there, amid the stare
Of all St Olave's, takes the chair,
And quotes, with phiz right orthodox,
Th example of his reverend brothers,
To prove that priests all fleece their flocks,
And he must fleece as well as others.

So described by a Reverend Historian of the Church: A Delta hat, like the horizontal section of a pyramid.-GRANT's History of the English Church.

Archbishop Magee affectionately calls the Church Establishment of Ireland the little Zion..

His Lordship (who promises now to fight faster) Has just taken Rhodes, and despatch'd 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, 't is all one to him.

From Russia the last accounts are, that the Czar-
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'--
Is now busy collecting, with brotherly care,

The late Emperor's night-caps, and thinks of bestowing

One night-cap a-piece (if he has them to spare)
On all the distinguish'd old ladies now going.
(While I write, an arrival from Riga- the Brothers»-
Having night-caps on board for Lord Eldon and others)
Last advices from India-Sir Archy, 't is thought,
Was near catching a Tartar (the first ever caught;
In N. lat. 21)—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 for the payment.—
(How lucky for monarchs, that thus, when they chuse,
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.

A VISION.

BY THE AUTHOR OF CHRISTABEL.

« Up!» said the Spirit, and, ere I could pray

One hasty orison, whirl'd me away

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

This potentate styles himself the Monarch of the Golden Foot.

To a limbo, lying-I wist not whereAbove or below, in earth or air;

For it glimmer'd o'er with a doubtful light,
One could n't say whether 't was day or night;
And 't was crost by many a mazy track,
One did n't know how to get on or back;
And, I felt like a needle that's going astray
(With its one eye out) through a bundle of hay;
When the Spirit he grinn'd and whisper'd me,
<< Thou 'rt now in the Court of Chancery!»
Around me flitted unnumber'd 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 kill'd in rearing;
Some were lame-some wanted hearing;
Some had through half a century run,
Though they had n'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 gulp'd 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 scream'd in score:-
So harsh on my ear that wailing fell

Of the wretches who in this Limbo dwell!
It seem'd like the dismal symphony
Of the shapes Encas in hell did see;
Or those frogs, whose legs a barbarous cook
Cut off, and left the frogs in the brook,
cry all night, till life's last dregs,

Το

« Give us our legs!-give us our legs!»
Touch'd with the sad and sorrowful scene,
I ask'd what all this yell might mean?
When the Spirit replied, with a grin of glee,
«T is the cry of the suitors in Chancery!

I look'd, and I saw a wizard rise,
With a wig like a cloud before men's eyes.
In his aged hand he held a wand,
Wherewith he beckon'd his embryo band,
And they moved, and moved, as he waved it o'er,
But they never got 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 answer'd, « No.»
And I heard the while, that wizard elf,
Muttering, muttering spells to himself,
While o'er as many old papers he turn'd
As Hume ere moved for, or Omar burn'd.
He talk'd of his Virtue, though some, less nice,
(He own'd with a sigh) preferr'd his Vice-
And he said, « I think»-«< I doubt»-« I hope,»>
Call'd God to witness, and damn'd the Pope;
With many more sleights of tongue and hand
I could n't, for the soul of me, understand.

THE CANONIZATION OF ST BUTTERWORTH.

A Christian of the best edition.-RABELAIS.

CANONIZE him!-yea, verily, we 'll canonize him; Though Cant is his hobby, and meddling his bliss, Though 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 't is n'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 honour'd by cheating so many; Thou 'It find still among us one Personage old,

Who also by tricks and the Seals' makes a penny.
Thou, too, of the Shakers, divine Mother Lee!"
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 heathens, we know, made their gods out of wood,
And saints, too, are framed of as handy materials,-
Old women and Butterworths make just as good
As any the Pope ever book'd, as Ethereals.

Stand forth, man of Bibles-not Mahomet's pigeon,
When, perch'd on the Koran, he dropp'd 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 vigour 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 letter'd « Whole Duty of Man.>>

As to politics-there, too, so strong his digestion, Having learn'd from the law-books, by which he 's surrounded,

To cull all that's worst on all sides of the question,
His black dose of politics thus is compounded—
The rinsing of any old Tory's dull noddle,

Made radical-hot, and then mix'd with some grains Of that gritty Scotch gabble, that virulent twaddle, Which Murray's New Series of Blackwood contains.

Canonize him!-by Judas, we will canonize him;
For Cant is his hobby and twaddling his bliss.
And, though wise men may pity and wits may depise 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, sublimed from your eyes, Like a kite made of fool's-cap, in glory shall soar, With a long tail of rubbish behind, to the skies!

AN INCANTATION.

SUNG BY THE BUBBLE SPIRIT.

Ara.-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 rhymest so well to « bilks :»1
Mix the lather-who can be
Fitter for such task than thee,
Great M. P. for Sudsbury!

Now the frothy charm is ripe,
Puffing Peter, 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 MOORE!
Now the rainbow humbugs 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

Cloister'd in the southern deep;

1 Strong indications of character may be sometimes traced in the rhymes to names. Marvell thought so, when he wrote Sir Edward Sutton,

The foolish Knight who rhymes to mutton.

A 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!

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 WILES, junior, runs beside ye,
Take the good the knaves provide ye!
See, with upturn'd eyes
and hands,
Where the Shareman, 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,
Scatter'd 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 Person; and the scene drops, leaving the bubble-hunters-all in the suds.]

A DREAM OF TURTLE.

BY SIR W. CURTIS.

'T WAS evening time, in twilight sweet I sail'd along, when-whom should I meet, But a turtle journeying o'er the sea, << On the service of his Majesty !»3

When I spied him first, through twilight dim,
I did n't know what to make of him;
But said to myself-as slow he plied
His fins, and roll'd from side to side,
Conceitedly o'er the watery path-
«'T is my Lord of STOWELL, taking a bath,
And I hear him now, among the fishes,
Quoting Vatel and Burgersdiscius!»>

But, no-'t was, 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.

A goodly man, with an eye so merry,
I knew 't was our Foreign Secretary,
Who there, at his ease, did sit and smile,
Like Waterton on his crocodile;
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 Diplomate,
Who is known to doat upon verdant fat,
And to let admiring Europe see,
That calipash and calipee

Are the English forms of Diplomacy!

THE DONKEY AND HIS PANNIERS.

A FABLE.

fessus jam sudat asellus,

Parce illi; vestrum delicium est asinus.-VIRGIL, 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 pond'rous,
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 through the dirtiest ways,

For every description of job-work so ready! One driver (whom Ned might have «hail'd» as a « brother»)

Had just been proclaiming his donkey's renown, For vigour, 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 look'd 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 wiseacres said), and he's sure to jog on.» But others who gabbled a jargon half Gaelic, Exclaim'd, «Hoot awa, mon, you're a' gane astray,»—

Alluding to an early poem of Mr Coleridge's, addressed to as ass, and beginning, I bail thee, brother!»

* 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.