I'll show you presently, my friends, the way
Rogues should be handled.
[He drops his bat, and places himself in the attitude of
the striker.']

Crack! and where are they?
We play not' tip a run,' no' touch and go;'
We move but with a serious braining blow.
Chorus we'll have, and semi-chorus strong,
Horsemen and foot, in tramping squadrons long,
Headed by patriots and men of might,
In pure, untax'd religion, clear of sight,
The balance to restore 'tween day and night.
[Poer Clinker bows, and retires amidst great applause

and sundry groans.]

Enter a dense squad of Rectorized Spirits in full canonicals. They are

led on by twelve Right Reverend Fathers in Mammon, in full uniform also, and bearing golden lyres. They range themselves along the front of the stage, the Bishops standing a pace in front at regular intervals.

Accompanied by the golden lyres and the serpent.
Wake, golden lyre, in this perturbed hour;

Nor longer slumber in your beds of down
O delegates of heaven's imperial power,

But rise to guard the sin-endanger'd crown
Of king and God—both patrons of our cause,
For whom we wage disinterested wars !

Wake, golden lyre!

Wake, holy men! this missal is our shield,

Or armour, proof against a nation's curse;
Our sword of fiery vengeance in the field,

And in its use hereafter ten-fold worse;
Our glory, honour, hope, and blessed pride,
Our food, our raiment, and all things beside.

Wake, holy men!

Enter a posse of Peers, led on by crimson-robed Figures on stilts, pre

senting front elevations of Queen Sinister, Dukes Bagnetlodge and Bloodmansdorf, the Earl of Oldenvice, Lord Normanrust, Earl Trampleneck, fc. They range themselves along one side of the stage.


Lords of the earth, and pillars of its thrones,

In every age we've stood undauntedly,
Like towers, above rebellion's threats or groans,

Dashing our bases with their idle sea:
Our power electric doth men's bosoms search,
Preserves the sovereign and his loyal church..

Enter the real representatives of the people, led on by Daniel O'Toole,

William Flail, Editors of the True Luminary,' Weekly Ninetails,' * Poor Man's Goliath,' Trade's Union Gazette,' &c., with two or three Members of Parliament. They range themselves on the side opposite

the peers.

Here stand we living men,

Who claim a right to live!
A beast is fed within his pen;

Our fellow-creatures nought will give !
We gave you all that you possess,
And gain your scorn by our distress!


Fire, earthquake, deluge, pestilence, and slaughter,
Are better than starvation; they are shorter !


But ye, inflated, self-idolatrous peers,

Less mercy have than war, plague, deluge, fire;
And ye, the evil fates, with clerical shears,
Would leave us bare, while ye with unctuous fat perspire !

Enter Poet Clinker, with Junius Redivivus, Publicola, William Broad

brim, Will Samson, Tête-à-Tête, the Editor of the Black Book,' &c. They are followed by men bearing poles and placards, on which the word. MILLION’ is inscribed. They place themselves among the foremost of the Representatives.

[merged small][merged small][ocr errors]

Led by Poer CLINKER, whirling his bat.
Off with the


man's tax;
Descending multiplied by 's poverty !

Are we like nacker's hacks,
Working for hounds of aristocracy?

Shame, with a tongue of flame,
Blister the noble's name

Who advocates this game,
Curs'd by the past and present times—and to poster ily!

teach us every

Sabbath morn;

Led by the Central Committee of Trades' Unions.
Is not the labourer worthy of his hire ?
Thus do

But what we're worth we never can acquire,
Since, with our wages, ye yourselves adorn!

We want no revolution

Of violence and strife;
We ask a fair solution

Of the problem of our life.
You live by us, are hous'd and cloth'd;
Why should we wander ragged, hungry, loath'd.

Led by three Poet-Mechanics.
We do not seek, as priests aver,
Back'd by hereditary star and spur,
To rob the sea of whale or whiting;

But we claim justice to the letter!
We want no civil wars or fighting-

We now know better!

A right we claim from nature,

Beyond all priests, lords, kings,
Of having large inheritance

In the wealth that labour brings !
A right in social state we have

As well as priests, lords, kings,
Of living in some comfort

So long as plenty springs!
Who shall deny there's plenty

When we see fat priests and lords
Wallow in wealth they can't consume,
And then bequeath their hoards ?

[A long symphony of very rough music.

Grand Solo, by CLINKER, with orchestral accompaniments.

If men were born with outward marks of rank,

Stars on their foreheads, or with nine-inch noses,
Small reason would there be their slaves to thank
For growing corn, or weaving beds of roses :

We'd do it as our natural duty,

In homage of such wondrous beauty! Or, if they had no need of corporal food,

Coats, hats and shoes, large town and country houses, Living, self-fed, by virtue of their blood,

And walking, cloth'd like trees whom spring espouses,

We then should know there were earth-gods among us,
Whose independence could not need to wrong us !
And if they did, from mere caprice, their station
Would claim a trembling and obeying nation.

[Thunders of applause, and thunders of opposition.

But since we find they're mark’d full oft

As nature's verriest fools,
In all things save the herakl's craft,

Why should we be their tools ?
Why should we worship at the feet
Of things that are compellid to eat,
Yet will not work to get their meat,

And cannot think
Aught rational for governing,

But talk, sleep, drink,
Wear out in wantonness, game, dance, and sing,
And die, bequeathing to like noble folks,
Pride, wealth, disease, and the same glorious hoax !

[A continued uproar of applause, and aristocratic



With trumpet obligato.
Tank ! tank! too-too !—Rise, souls of fire,
And let each peer with lofty ire
Think of the glories of his sire,
And make these slaves their folly rue
In chains or carnage !-tank! too-too!
Trank-litty-hank !-Shall ages gone,
And honours left from sire to son,
Be by our vassals trampled—won-
And blown away like dust and flue?
Never-no, never !--tank too-too!

Must peers—trank hank!

In stellar rank,
Heed baying hounds—tra ting, too-too!

Relinquish-hank !

Large tax-trank trank ! Because men starve ?-hank hank, too-too ! [Shouls of applause; in which the people join, carried

beyond themselves by its excellence !


Led by William Flail.
Off with the malt-tax now!
That National robbery (of which
The State is robbed-by many a leach ;)
That makes the labourer wipe his streaming brow,

No. 97,

And vent a parching groan,
With nought to renovate the strength
Which, toiling since the dawn, at length
Is nerveless now,

and gone!

The cattle thrive in field and dell;
Example take-drink of the well!

Accompanied by the tongs and the bones,

Where is your honesty--reply?
Are not the poor by Statute unrepeald,

Entitled to a third part lawfully
O'the tithes of benefices ? 'Tis not given !
Is it withheld by a private hint from heaven,
One of your texts unwritten, yet reveal'd ?

Where is our share-reply ?

It doth repose e'en with our honesty,

All things are safe that we do hold,

Pigs, poultry, cabbages, and gold,
Enshrin'd in orthodox sanctity;

But be ye honest, erring sheep;
Be shorn in silence ! rail not-weep!

Give us some share of your vast stores !

Our ears are like the clos'd church-doors !


We can't live long on a Peeld 'tater,
Nor while Duke Bagnet is Dick-tater !*
Give us a better Poor-law Bill:

The last was burnt in both your Houses ;
Because they know tarnation well

Starvation e'en a pauper rouses : Then, Shepherds, render some account

Ye are all d----d! we won't! we won't !

* This insufferably ball (and therefore exquisite) pun is a plagiarism from a letter of Lord Busby's, recently sent from over the water, to Charlie.'

« VorigeDoorgaan »