The political and occasional poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed Edited, with notes, by Sir George Young |
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THE OLD TORY. |
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 | The political and occasional poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed |  |
165
XIII. THE OLD TORY.
166
“Quo semel est imbuta recens, servabit odorem Testa diu.”—Hor.
Aye, chatter, chatter, brother Sam;
Call Thomson deep and Sheil divine;
And tell us all that Master Cam
Is quite a Tully in his line.
I'm near threescore; you ought to know
You can't transplant so old a tree;
I was a Tory long ago;
You'll hardly make a Whig of me.
Call Thomson deep and Sheil divine;
And tell us all that Master Cam
Is quite a Tully in his line.
I'm near threescore; you ought to know
You can't transplant so old a tree;
I was a Tory long ago;
You'll hardly make a Whig of me.
Lord Palmerston may turn about,
And curse the creed he held so long;
And moral Grant may now find out
That Canning was extremely wrong:
Lansdowne with Waithman may unite,
And Ministers with mobs agree;
Truth may be falsehood, black grow white,
But, sir, you make no Whig of me.
And curse the creed he held so long;
And moral Grant may now find out
That Canning was extremely wrong:
Lansdowne with Waithman may unite,
And Ministers with mobs agree;
Truth may be falsehood, black grow white,
But, sir, you make no Whig of me.
You know I never learned to trust
The wisdom of the Scotch Review;
I worshipped not Napoleon's bust;
I could not blush for Waterloo:
I'm proud of England's glory still,
Of laurels won on land and sea;
Call me a bigot if you will,
But pray don't make a Whig of me.
The wisdom of the Scotch Review;
I worshipped not Napoleon's bust;
I could not blush for Waterloo:
I'm proud of England's glory still,
Of laurels won on land and sea;
Call me a bigot if you will,
But pray don't make a Whig of me.
167
I cannot march with Attwood's ranks,
I cannot write with Russell's pen,
I have no longing for the thanks
Of very loyal tithing-men;
I cannot wear a civil face
When Carpue just drops in to tea;
I cannot flatter Mr. Place;
You'll never make a Whig of me.
I cannot write with Russell's pen,
I have no longing for the thanks
Of very loyal tithing-men;
I cannot wear a civil face
When Carpue just drops in to tea;
I cannot flatter Mr. Place;
You'll never make a Whig of me.
I can't admire the Bristol rows,
Nor call the Common Council wise;
I cannot bow as Burdett bows,
Nor lie as great O'Connell lies;
And if I wanted place or pay,
A Baron's robe, or Bishop's see,
I'm not first cousin to Lord Grey—
Why should you make a Whig of me?
Nor call the Common Council wise;
I cannot bow as Burdett bows,
Nor lie as great O'Connell lies;
And if I wanted place or pay,
A Baron's robe, or Bishop's see,
I'm not first cousin to Lord Grey—
Why should you make a Whig of me?
Good brother, 'twere an easier thing
To make a wit of Joseph Hume,
To make a conjuror of Lord King,
To make a lawyer of Lord Brougham.
No, Howick will be half his sire,
And Althorp learn the Rule of Three,
And Morpeth set the Thames on fire,
Before you make a Whig of me!
To make a wit of Joseph Hume,
To make a conjuror of Lord King,
To make a lawyer of Lord Brougham.
No, Howick will be half his sire,
And Althorp learn the Rule of Three,
And Morpeth set the Thames on fire,
Before you make a Whig of me!
| The political and occasional poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed | |