"Whether 'twas only 'Hell and Jemmy',
"Or 'Hell and Tommy' that he play'd.

"No, no, my worthy beaver, no
"Though cheapen'd at the cheapest hatter's,
"And smart enough, as beavers go,

"Thou ne'er wert made for public matters."
Here Wig concluded his oration,

Looking, as wigs do, wondrous wise;
While thus, full cock'd for declamation,
The veteran Hat enraged replies:

"Ha! dost thou then so soon forget

"What thou, what England owes to me?
"Ungrateful Wig!
- when will a debt,

"So deep, so vast, be owed to thee?

"Think of that night, that fearful night,
"When, through the steaming vault below,
"Our master dared, in gout's despite,
"To venture his podagric toe!

"Who was it then, thou boaster, say,
"When thou hadst to thy box sneak'd off,
"Beneath his feet protecting lay,

“And saved him from a mortal cough?
"Think, if Catarrh had quench'd that sun,
"How blank this world had been to thee!
"Without that head to shine upon,

"Oh Wig, where would thy glory be?
"You, too, ye Britons, had this hope

"Of Church and State been ravish'd from ye,

"Oh think, how Canning and the Pope

"Would then have play'd up 'Hell and Tommy!'

"At sea, there's but a plank, they say,
"""Twixt seamen and annihilation;
"A Hat, that awful moment, lay
"Twixt England and Emancipation!
"Oh!!!

At this "Oh!!!" The Times' Reporter
Was taken poorly, and retired;
Which made him cut Hat's rhetoric shorter,
Than justice to the case required.

On his return, he found these shocks
Of eloquence all ended quite;

And Wig lay snoring in his box,

And Hat was

-

- hung up for the night.

My Lords, I'm accused of a trick that, God knows, is
The last into which, at my age, I could fall -
Of leading this grave House of Peers, by their noses,
Wherever I choose, princes, bishops, and all.

My Lords, on the question before us at present,
No doubt I shall hear, "tis 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!"

1 A case which interested the public very much at this period. A gentleman, of the name of Bell, having left his umbrella behind him in the House of Lords, the door-keepers (standing, no doubt, on the privileges of that noble body) refused to restore it to him; and the above speech, which may be considered as a pendant to that of the Learned Earl on the Catholic Question, arose out of the transaction.

2 From Mr. Canning's translation of Jekyl's -,

say, my good fellows,
"As you've no umbrellas."

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 'twould 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,
where would your Protestant periwigs be?

And then

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 ear nestness, occasioned an extraordinary sensation in the House. Nothing since the memorable address of the Duke of York has produced so remarkable an impression."}

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

BY JOHN BULL.

Dublin, March 12, 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 tried, 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.
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 R-d-n, 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 oft'ner than thou art at present.

Even W-11-t-n'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;
"Tis the cure that all quacks for thy ills,
From Cromwell to Eld-n, 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.

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 laws
Quoth 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 now?”
"My dearest Lord Bags!" saith his dame, "can you doubt?
"I am loth to remind you of things so unpleasant;
"But don't you perceive, dear, the Church have found out
"That you're one of the people call'd Er's, at present?"
"Ah, true
you have hit it. I am, indeed, one
"Of those ill-fated Er'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! 2

-

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 F-rnh-m, Saint F-rnh-m, 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, L―rt—n, who, scorning profane erudition,

1 A small bathing place on the coast of Dorsetshire, long a favourite summer resort of the ex-nobleman in question, and, till this season, much' frequented also by gentlemen of the

church.

2 Suggested by a speech of the Bishop of Ch-st-r on the subject of the New Reformation in Ireland, in which his Lordship denounced "Wo! Wo! Wo!" pretty abundantly on all those who dared to interfere with its progress.

Popp'd Shakspeare, they say, in the river, one day,
Though 'twas only old Bowdler's Velluti edition."

Come, R-den, who doubtest, - so mild are thy views, -
Whether Bibles or bullets are best for the nation;
Who leav'st to poor Paddy no medium to choose,
"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, 'tis said, with perpetual fire, '

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 F-rnh-m, when all had been tried, came to show,
Like the German flea-catcher, "anoder goot way."
And nothing's more simple than F-rnh-m's receipt;
"Catch your Catholic, first soak him well in poteen
"Add salary sauce, 3 and the thing is complete.

2

"You may serve up your Protestant, smoking and clean."
"Wo, wo to the wag, who would laugh at such cookery!”
Thus, from his perch, did I hear a black crow 4
Caw angrily out, while the rest of the rookery
Open'd their bills, and re-echo'd "Wo, wo!!"

TOUT POUR LA TRIPE.

"If, in China or among the natives of India, we claimed civil advantages which were con nected 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 contumely; and, though unable to consider them sacred, we would not sneer at the name of Fot, or laugh at the imputed divinity of I isthnou." Courier, Tuesday, Jan. 16.

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 my wishes

Are those that, like Vishnu and others, descend

In the form, so attractive, of loaves and of fishes! 5

So take my advice - for, if even the devil

Should tempt men again as an idol to try him, "Twere best for us Tories, e'en then, to be civil,

As nobody doubts we should get something by him.

1 The inextinguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare. 2 Whiskey.

3 "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?'” Wexford Post.

4 Of the Rook species Corvus frugilegus, i. e. a great corn-consumer of corn. 5 Vishnu was (as Sir W. Jones calls him) "a pisciform god," the shape of a fish.

his first Avatar being in

ENIGMA.

Monstrum nulla virtute redemptum.

COMB, 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;
Though a dwarf in my youth (as my nurses have told),
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;

And the doctors declare that, in due course of nature,
About the year 30 in rags I shall die.

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!"
How he hides his brave Waterloo head in the blanket.
When mighty Belshazzar brims high in the hall

His 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

My maw with the fruits of the Squirearchy'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 'tis 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?

One of the shows of London.