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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 be-
stowing

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 kiil'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 case '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 Eneas in hell did see;
Or those frogs, whose legs a barbarous cook
Cut off, and left the frogs in the brook,
To cry all night, till life's last dregs,
« 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!

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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.

Amazed and posed, I was just about
To ask his name, when the screams without,
The merciless clack of the imps within,
And that conjuror's mutterings, made such a din,
That, startled, I woke—leap'd up in my bed—
Found the Spirit, the imps, and the conjuror fled,
And bless'd my stars, right pleased to see
That I was n't as yet in Chancery.

THE PETITION OF THE ORANGEMEN OF
IRELAND.

To the People of England, the humble Petition
Of Ireland's disconsolate Orangemen, showing-
That sad, very sad, is our present condition;-

Our jobbing all gone, and our noble selves going:

That, forming one seventh-within a few fractions--
Of Ireland's seven millions of hot heads and hearts,
We hold it the basest of all base transactions

To keep us from murdering the other six parts:

That, as to laws made for the good of the many,

We humbly suggest there is nothing less true;
As all human laws (and our own, more than any)
Are made by and for a particular few :-

That much it delights every true Orange brother
To see you, in England, such ardour evince,
In discussing which sect most tormented the other,
And burn'd with most gusto, some hundred years
since:-

That we love to behold, while Old England grows faint,
Messrs Southey and Butler nigh coming to blows,
To decide whether Dunstan, that strong-bodied saint,
Ever truly and really pull'd the devil's nose:
Whether t' other saint, Dominic, burnt the devil's paw-
Whether Edwy intrigued with Elgiva's old mother-1
And many such points, from which Southey can draw
Conclusions most apt for our hating each other:

That 't is very well known this devout Irish nation
Has now, for some ages, gone happily on,
Believing in two kinds of Substantiation,

One party in Trans, and the other in Con :2

That we, your petitioning Cons, have, in right
Of the said monosyllable, ravaged the lands,
And embezzled the goods, and annoy'd day and night,
Both the bodies and souls of the sticklers for Trans :---

That we trust to Peel, Eldon, and other such sages,
For keeping us still in the same state of mind;
Pretty much as the world used to be in those ages,
When still smaller syllables madden'd mankind :-
When the words ex and per3 did as well, to annoy
One's neighbours and friends with, as con and trans

now;

To such important discussions as these the greater part of Dr Southey's Vindicia Ecclesiæ Anglicana is devoted.

And Christians, like Southey, who stickled for oi,

Cut the throats of all Christians, who stickled for ou.'

That, relying on England, whose kindness already
So often has help'd us to play this game o'er,
We have got our red coats and our carabines ready,
And wait but the word to show sport as before:

That, as to the expense-the few millions, or so,
Which for all such diversions John Bull has to pay-
'T is, at least, a great comfort to John Bull to know
That to Orangemen's pockets 't will all find its way.
For which your petitioners ever will pray,

etc., etc., etc., etc., etc.

COTTON AND CORN.

A DIALOGUE.

SAID Cotton to Corn, t' other day,
As they met, and exchanged a salute—
(Squire Corn in his carriage so gay
Poor Cotton, half famish'd, on foot)-

« Great squire, if it is n't uncivil
To hint at starvation before you,
Look down on a poor hungry devil,

And give him some bread, I implore you!»

Quoth Corn then, in answer to Cotton,
Perceiving he meant to make free,—
« Low fellow, you 've surely forgotten
The distance between you and me !

<< To expect that we, peers of high birth,
Should waste our illustrious acres

For no other purpose on earth

Than to fatten curst calico-makers!—

<< That bishops to bobbins should hend,—
Should stoop from their bench's sublimity,
Great dealers in lawn, to befriend
Such contemptible dealers in dimity!

<< No-vile manufacture! ne'er harbour
A hope to be fed at our boards;-
Base offspring of Arkwright, the barber,
What claim canst thou have upon lords?

«No-thanks to the taxes and debt,

And the triumph of paper o'er guineas,
Our race of Lord Jemmys, as yet,

May defy your whole rabble of Jennys !»

So saying, whip, crack, and away

Went Corn in his chaise through the throng, So headlong, I heard them all say

Squire Corn would be down, before long.

Turks, we are told, laughing at the Christians for being divided

2 Consubstantiation-the true reformed belief; at least, the belief by two such insignificant particles." of Luther, and, as Mosheim asserts, of Melanchon also.

3 When John of Ragusa went to Constantinople (at the time this dispute between ex and per was going on), he found the

The Arian controversy.-Before that time, says Hooker, in order to be a sound believing Christian, men were not curious what syllables or particles of speech they used,

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 'lt 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! 2
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, Hlaving 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.

A great part of the income of Joanna Southcott arose from the Seals of the Lord's protection which she sold to her followers. Mrs Anne Lee, the chosen vessel of the Shakers, and Mother of all the children of regeneration.

Toad-lane in Manchester, where Mother Lee was Lorn. In her Address to Young Believers, she says that it is a matter of no importance with them from whence the means of their deliverance come, whether from a stable in Bethlehem, or from Toad-lane, Manchester.

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.

A.-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.

2

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.

2 A bumble imitation of one of our modern poets, who, in a poem against War, after describing the splendid babiliments of the soldier, thus apostrophizes him- thou rainbow ruffian!

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Now's the moment-who shall first
Catch the bubbles ere they burst?
Run, ye squires, ye viscounts, run,
BROGDEN, TEYNHAM, PALMERSTON ;-
JOHN WILKS, 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 Persona; 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.

But now a change came o'er my dream,» Like the magic lantern's shifting slider;

I look'd, and saw by the evening beam, On the back of that turtle sat a rider,

I Lovely Thais sits beside thee:
Take the good the gods provide thee.

So called by a sort of Tuscan dulcification of the ch, in the word • Chairman..

3 We are told that the passport of the late grand diplomatic Turtle described him as on his Majesty's service.

dapibus supremi

Grata testudo Jovis.

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 embassyTo 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. Com.

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,»--

1 Alluding to an early poem of Mr Coleridge's, addressed to an ass, and beginning, I hail 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.

And declared that, «whoe'er might prefer the metallic,
They'd shoe their own donkeys with papier maché, »

Meanwhile the poor Neddy, in torture and fear
Lay under his panniers, scarce able to groan,
And what was still dolefuller-lending an ear
To advisers whose ears were a match for his own.

At length, a plain rustic, whose wit went so far
As to see others' folly, roar'd out, as he pass'd-
« Quick-off with the panniers, all dolts as ye are,
Or your prosperous Neddy will soon kick his last!>>
October, 1826.

ODE TO THE SUBLIME PORTE.

GREAT Sultan, how wise are thy state compositions!
And oh, above all, I admire that decree,
In which thou command'st that all she politicians
Shall forthwith be strangled and cast in the sea.

'T is my fortune to know a lean Benthamite spinster-
A maid, who her faith in old JEREMY puts;
Who talks, with a lisp, of « the last new Westminster,»
And hopes you 're delighted with « Mill upon Gluts; >>

Who tells you how clever one Mr FUNBLANQUE is,
How charming his Articles 'gainst the Nobility;-
And assures you, that even a gentleman's rank is,
In Jeremy's school, of no sort of utility.

To see her, ye Gods, a new Number perusing

Art. 1- On the Needle's variations,» by Place; Art. 2-By her fav'rite Fun-blank '—« so amusing! Dear man, he makes poetry quite a Law case.»>

Art. 3-«Upon Fallacies,» JEREMY's own

(The chief fallacy being his hope to find readers);— Art. 4-« Upon Honesty,» author unknown;Art. 5-(by the young Mr M-) « Hints to Breeders.>>

Oh Sultan, oh Sultan, though oft for the bag

And the bowstring, like thee, I am tempted to callThough drowning's too good for each blue-stocking hag, I would bag this she Benthamite first of them all!

And-lest she should ever again lift her head

From the watery bottom, her clack to renew,— As a clog, as a sinker, far better than lead,

I would hang round her neck her own darling Review.

Gods! were there ever two such bores? Nothing else talk'd of, night or mornNothing in doors, or out of doors,

But endless Catholics and Corn!

Never was such a brace of pests-
While Ministers, still worse than either,
Skill'd but in feathering their nests,
Plague us with both, and settle neither.

So addled in my cranium meet
Popery and Corn, that oft I doubt,
Whether, this year, 't was bonded wheat,
Or bonded papists, they let out.

Here landlords, here polemics, nail you,

Arm'd with all rubbish they can rake up; Prices and texts at once assail you

From Daniel these, and those from Jacob.'

And when you sleep, with head still torn Between the two, their shapes you mix, Till sometimes Catholics seem Corn,Then Corn again seems Catholics.

Now Dantzic wheat before you floats-
Now, Jesuits from California-
Now Ceres, link'd with Titus Oats,
Comes dancing through the « Porta Cornea.»2

Oft, too, the Corn grows animate,
And a whole crop of heads appears,
Like Papists, bearding Church and State-
Themselves, together by the ears!

While, leaders of the wheat, a row

Of Poppies, gaudily declaiming, Like Counsellor O'Bric and Co.,

Stand forth, somniferously flaming!
In short, these torments never cease;
And oft I wish myself transferr'd off
To some far, lonely land of peace,
Where Corn or Papists ne'er were heard of.

Yes, waft me, Parry, to the Pole;
For-if my fate is to be chosen

'Twixt bores and ice-bergs-on my soul,
I'd rather, of the two, be frozen!

CORN AND CATHOLICS.

Utrum horum

Dirius borum?-INCERTI AUCTORIS.

WHAT! still those two infernal questions, That with our meals, our slumbers mixThat spoil our tempers and digestionsEternal Corn and Catholics!

This pains-taking gentleman has been at the trouble of counting, with the assistance of Cocker, the number of metaphors in Moore's Life of Sheridan, and has found them to amount, as nearly as possible, to 2235, and some fractions,

A CASE OF LIBEL.

The greater the truth, the worse the libel.

A CERTAIN Sprite, who dwells below

('T were a libel, perhaps, to mention where) Came up incog., some years ago,

To try, for a change, the London air.

So well he look'd, and dress'd and talk'd,
And hid his tail and horns so handy,
You'd hardly have known him, as he walk'd,
From C-e, or any other Dandy.

Author of the late Report on Foreign Corn.

The Horn Gate, through which the ancients supposed all true

dreams (such as those of the Popish Plot, etc.) to pass.

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