Of leading this grave House of Peers, by their noses,
Wherever I chuse, princes, bishops, and all.

My lords, on the question before us at present,
No doubt I shall hear, «'t is that cursed old fellow,
That bugbear of all that is lib'ral and pleasant,
Who won't let the Lords give the man his umbrella!»>

God forbid that your Lordships should knuckle to me;
I am ancient-but were I as old as King Priam,
Not much, I confess, to your credit `t would be,
To mind such a twaddling old Trojan as I am.

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!
And, as poison and hemp are too slow,
Do thy business with bullets instead.
Should thy faith in my medicine be shaken,
Ask Roden, that mildest of saints;
He'll tell thee, lead, inwardly taken,

Alone can remove thy complaints;-
That, blest as thou art in thy lot,

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,
The Devil of the Freischutz could know
The good work you are going about.
For he 'd charm ye, in spite of your lead,
Into such supernatural wit,
That you'd all of you know, as you sped,
Where a bullet of sense ought to hit.

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,
A gift that will surely content her,
Sweet pledge of a love so endearing!
Five millions of bullets I've sent her.
She ask'd me for Freedom and Right,
But ill she her wants understood;—
Ball-cartridges, morning and night,

Is a dose that will do her more good.

There is hardly a day of our lives

But we read, in some amiable trials,
How husbands make love to their wives
Through the medium of hemp and of phials.

One thinks, with his mistress or mate
A good halter is sure to agree-
That love-knot which, early and late,
I have tied, my dear Erin, on thee.

While another, whom Hymen has bless'd
With a wife that is not over placid,
Consigns the dear charmer to rest,

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
That you're one of the people call'd Ex's, at present?»>

« Ah, true-you have hit it-I am, indeed, one
Of those ill-fated Ex's (his Lordship replies),
And, with tears, I confess,-God forgive me the pun!-
We X's have proved ourselves not to be Y's.»

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,—
That beautiful Light, which is now on its way;
Which, beaming, at first, o'er the bogs of Belturbet,
Now brightens sweet Ballinafad with its ray!

Oh Farnham, Saint Farnham, how much do we owe thee!
How form'd to all tastes are thy various employs!

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!-
On, Luther of Cavan! On, Saint of Kilgroggy!
With whip in one hand, and with Bible in t' other,
Like Mungo's tormentor, both « preachee and floggee.»>
Come, Saints from all quarters, and marshal his way;
Come, Lorton, who, scorning profane erudition,
Popp'd Shakspeare, they say, in the river, one day,

Though it was only old Bowdler's Velluti edition.
Come, Roden, who doubtest, so mild are thy views,-
Whether Bibles or bullets are best for the nation;
Who leavest to poor Paddy no medium to chuse,
'Twixt good old Rebellion and new Reformation.
What more from her Saints can Hibernia require!
St Bridget, of yore, like a dutiful daughter,
Supplied her, 't is said, with perpetual fire,1

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,
When civil advantages» are to be gain'd,
What god or what goddess may help to obtain you 'em,
Hindoo or Chinese, so they 're only obtain'd.

In this world (let me hint in your organ auricular)
All the good things to good hypocrites fall;
And he, who in swallowing creeds is particular,
Soon will have nothing to swallow at all.

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,
And tell me what my name may be.

I am nearly one hundred and thirty years old,

And therefore no chicken, as you may suppose;—

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,
Holding citizen, peasant, and king in my thrall.
Then riddle-me-ree, oh riddle-me-ree,
Come, tell me what my name may be.

When the lord of the counting-house bends o'er his book,

Bright pictures of profit delighting to draw,
O'er his shoulders with large cipher eyeballs I look,
And down drops the pen from his paralyzed paw!
When the Premier lies dreaming of dear Waterloo,

And expects through another to caper and prank it,
You'd laugh did you see, when I bellow out « Boo!»
Ilow he hides his brave Waterloo head in the blanket.
When mighty Belshazzar brims high in the hall
cup, full of gout, to the Gaul's overthrow,
Lo, « Eight Hundred Millions» I write on the wall,
And the cup falls to earth and-the gout to his toe!
But the joy of my heart is when largely I cram

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 ;-
Of dabs a great glut, I allow,

But
your soles, every one, out of town.
East or west, nothing wond'rous or new;
No courtship or scandal, worth knowing;
Mrs B, and a Mermaid or two,

Are the only loose fish that are going.
Ah, where is that dear house of Peers,

That some weeks ago, kept us merry?
Where, Eldon, art thou, with thy tears?
And thou, with thy sense, Londonderry?

Wise Marquis, how much the Lord May'r,
In the dog-days, with thee must be puzzled!-

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.—
With how mod'rate a portion of brains
Some heroes contrive to get on.

And, thou, too, my Redesdale, ah, where
Is the peer, with a star at his button,
Whose quarters could ever compare

With Redesdale's five quarters of mutton? 3

Why, why have ye taken your flight,
Ye diverting and dignified crew?
How ill do three farces a night,
At the Haymarket, pay us for you!
For, what is Bombastes to thee,
My Ellenbro', when thou look'st big?
Or, where's the burletta can be
Like Lauderdale's wit-and his wig?
I doubt if ev'n Griffinhoof could
(Though Griffin 's a comical lad)
Invent any joke half so good

As that precious one, « This is too bad!»
Then come again, come again, Spring!
Oh haste thee, with Fun in thy train;
And of all things the funniest-bring
These exalted Grimaldis again!

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)
With sops every day from the Lion's own pan,
He lifts up his leg at the noble beast's carcass,
And-does all a dog so diminutive can.

However, the book's a good book, being rich in
Examples and warnings to lions high-bred,
How they suffer small mongrelly curs in their kitchen,

The Bulls, in hysterics-the Bears, just as bad-
The few men who have, and the many who 've not
tick,

All shock'd to find out that that promising lad,
Prince Metternich's pupil, is-not patriotic!

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
Two stately steeds,-standing, with graceful straddle,
Like him of Rhodes, with foot on either saddle,
While to soft tunes,-some jigs, and some andantes,-
He steers around his light-paced Rosinantes.

So rides along, with canter smooth and pleasant,
That horseman bold, Lord Anglesea, at present;-
Papist and Protestant the coursers twain,
That lend their necks to his impartial rein,

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;-
Great Despots on bouilli served up à la Russe,'
Your small German Princes on frogs and sour crout,
And your Viceroy of Hanover always on goose.

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,-
To the old medley tune, half Patrick's Day"
And half « Boyne Water,» take their cantering way;
While Peel, the showman, in the middle, cracks
His long-lash'd whip, to cheer the doubtful hacks.
Ah, ticklish trial of equestrian art!

How blest, if neither steed would bolt or start;
If Protestant's old restive tricks were gone,
And Papist's winkers could be still kept on!
But no, false hopes,-not ev'n the great Ducrow
Twixt two such steeds could 'scape an overthrow:
If solar hacks play'd Phaeton a trick,
What hope, alas! from hackneys lunatic?
If once my Lord his graceful balance loses,
Or fails to keep each foot where each horse chuses;
If Peel but gives one extra touch of whip
To Papist's tail or Protestant's ear-tip,-
That instant ends their glorious horsemanship!
Off bolt the sever'd steeds, for mischief free,
And down, between them, plumps Lord Anglesea!

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,
And saw that valley, where all the things,

That vanish on earth, are found again-
The hopes of youth, the resolves of age,
The vow of the lover, the dream of the sage,
The golden visions of mining cits,

The promises great men strew about them;
And, pack'd in compass small, the wits

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,
In vain, like Harris's, far and wide)
In heaps, like yesterday's orts, are thrown,
And there, so worthless and fly-blown

That even the imps would not purloin them,
Lie, till their worthy owners join them.
Curious it was to see this mass

Of lost and torn-up reputations ;-
Some of them female wares, alas,

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;---
Both these articles much the worse

For their journey down, as you may suppose,
But one so devilish rank-« Odd's curse !»
Said the Lord Chief Imp, and held his nose.
Ho, ho!» quoth he, « I know full well
From whom these two stray matters fell;»
Then, casting away, with a loathful shrug,
Th' uncleaner waif (as he would a drug
Th' Invisible's own dark hand had mix'd),
His eyes on the other gravely fix'd,

And trying, though mischief laugh'd in his eye,
To be moral, because of the young imps by,

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,
Keeping his character in his pocket;
And there without considering whether
There's room for that and his gains together-
Cramming, and cramming, and cramming away,
Till-out slips character some fine day!
However »and here he view'd it round-
This article still may pass for sound.
Some flaws, soon patch'd, some stains are all
The harm it has had in its luckless fall.
Here, Puck!»-and he called to one of his train-
The owner may have this back again.
Though damaged for ever, if used with skill,
It may serve, perhaps, to trade on still;
Though the gem can never, as once, be set,
It will do for a Tory Cabinet. >>

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;
And, to show you how simple the process it needs,
If a great Major-General wishes to pass

For an author of History, thus he proceeds;

First, scribbling his own stock of notions as well
As he can, with a goose-quill that claims him as kin,
He settles his neck-cloth-takes snuff-rings the bell,
And yawningly orders a Subaltern in.

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
Awkward breaches of syntax a hundred times more
And, though often condemn'd to see breaking of heads
He had ne'er seen such breaking of Priscian's before.
However, the job's sure to pay-that's enough-
So, to it he sets with his tinkering hammer,
Convinced that there never was job half so tough
As the mending a great Major-General's grammar.
But, lo, a fresh puzzlement starts up to view,-
New toil for the Sub,-for the Lord new expense;
'Tis discover'd that mending his grammar won't do,
As the Subaltern also must find him in sense!

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
Of ghosts came fluttering tow'rds ine,-blown along,
Like cockchafers in high autumual storms,
By many a fitful gust that through their forms
Whistled, as on they came, with wheezy puff,
And puff'd as-though they'd never puff enough.
« Whence and what are ye?» pitying I inquired
Of these poor ghosts, who, tatter'd, tost, and tired
With such eternal puffing, scarce could stand
On their lean legs while answering my demand,
« We once were authors,»-thus the Sprite, who led
This tag-rag regiment of spectres, said,-

Or Lieutenant-General, as it may happen to be.