COPY OF AN INTERCEPTED DESPATCH.
FROM HIS EXCELLENCY DON STREPITOSO DIABOLO, ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY TO HIS SATANIC MAJESTY.
St. James's Street, July 1. 1826.
Great Sir, having just had the good luck to catch
An official young Demon, preparing to go,
Ready booted and spurr'd, with a black-leg despatch
From the Hell here, at Cr*ckf---rd's, to our Hell, below—
I write these few lines to your Highness Satanic,
To say that, first having obey'd your directions,
And done all the mischief I could in “the Panic,”
My next special care was to help the Elections.
Well knowing how dear were those times to thy soul,
When ev'ry good Christian tormented his brother,
And caus'd, in thy realm, such a saving of coal,
From all coming down, ready grill'd by each other;
Rememb'ring, besides, how it pain'd thee to part
With the Old Penal Code—that chef-d'œuvre of Law,
In which (though to own it too modest thou art)
We could plainly perceive the fine touch of thy claw;
It thought, as we ne'er can those good times revive,
(Though Eld---n, with help from your Highness would try,)
'Twould still keep a taste for Hell's music alive,
Could we get up a thund'ring No-Popery cry;—
That yell which, when chorus'd by laics and clerics,
So like is to ours, in its spirit and tone,
That I often nigh laugh myself into hysterics,
To think that Religion should make it her own.
So, having sent down for the' original notes
Of the chorus, as sung by your Majesty's choir,
With a few pints of lava, to gargle the throats
Of myself and some others, who sing it “with fire
,”
Thought I, “if the Marseillois Hymn could command
“Such audience, though yell'd by a Sans-culotte crew,
“What wonders shall we do, who've men in our band,
“That not only wear breeches, but petticoats too.”
Such then were my hopes; but, with sorrow, your Highness,
I'm forc'd to confess—be the cause what it will,
Whether fewness of voices, or hoarseness, or shyness,—
Our Beelzebub Chorus has gone off but ill.
The truth is, no placeman now knows his right key,
The Treasury pitch-pipe of late is so various;
And certain base voices, that look'd for a fee
At the York music-meeting, now think it precarious.
Even some of our Reverends might have been warmer,—
Though one or two capital roarers we've had;
Doctor Wise
is, for instance, a charming performer,
And Huntingdon Maberley's yell was not bad!
Altogether, however, the thing was not hearty;—
Even Eld---n allows we got on but so so;
And when next we attempt a No-Popery party,
We must, please your Highness, recruit from below.
But, hark, the young Black-leg is cracking his whip—
Excuse me, Great Sir—there's no time to be civil;—
The next opportunity shan't be let slip,
But, till then,
I'm, in haste, your most dutiful
Devil.
July, 1826.
