Miscellaneous writings of the late Dr. Maginn :: :: University of Virginia Library

“Ladies and Gentlemen—It was a strange
Sensation that came o'er me, when at first,
From the broad sunshine, I stepped in and saw
The narrowing line of daylight that came running
In after me shut by the door outside.
All then around was dusky twilight dim,
Made out of shadows most fantastical,
The unsubstantial progeny of light
Shining on singularities of art.
There stood around, all in a circ'lar row,
Seven colossal statues—each a king
Upon a rich Corinthian capital.
Sceptres were in their hands, and on their heads
Were golden crowns, in shape similar
To that small bonnet which adorned of yore

My dexter temple, when, the live-long day,
I delved the classics in that blue-coat school,
Fast by famed Newgate's jail; and one there was
As Nestor, or as Priam king of Troy,
Venerable—a marble brought from Athens,
Which, though oblivion hung upon his nose,
Wore the grave aspect of antiquity.
‘These,’ said our host, the modest Mister Soane,
‘Are planets, and they rule the fates of men.’
‘Are they not rather,’ was my fond reply,
Thrilling with wonderment ineffable,
‘The seven sciences—stupendous spirits,
That mock the pride of man, and people space
With life and mystical predominance?’
And, full of that sublime conception, out
I throbbing came upon this window-sill,
Where I beheld you multitudinous,
A Lake of Physiognomies, whose waves
Were human faces—and whose murmurings—
Discordant din of discontented tongues,
Shattered the crystal calmness of the air.—
But I had then the sense of sweetest influences, [To the Ladies.

The intelligible forms of ancient poets,
The fair humanities of old religion,
The power, the beauty, and the majesty,
That have their haunts in dale or piny mountain,
Or forest by low stream or pebbly spring,
Or such green bogs as Irishmen afar,
In Australasia or Cabotia lone,
Dream are in Erin's isle. Then I bethought
Wherefore this wise and beauteous multitude
Were here assembled, from all quarters come,
Like the rich argosies and merchantmen
That swing at anchor in the pool or stream
Below famed London bridge—and thence inspired,
I call upon you to give suffrage. Now,
Who shall be Editor, and, like the stars
Immortal burning in their glorious spheres,
Make you all stars, dispensing destiny?
For such shall be the issues of this day,
If you, in your intelligence serene,
Make a seraphic choice.”

Song.

[Fill up your bumpers, lads, brimmers all round!]

Fill up your bumpers, lads, brimmers all round!
This world's a queer world, you may think;
And, faith, so it is, as we've most of us found,
And that's why I wish you to drink.
D'ye wait for a toast?—then I'll give you “the King!”
And, while we've such cause to caress him,
With hearts just as full as our goblets, we'll sing,
Here's “William the Fourth, God bless him!”
God bless him!
Here's “William the Fourth, God bless him!”

Again, my lads, fill to the health of a king,
Who roughed it right bravely when young;
And, when but small profit her service could bring,
To the pure cause of Liberty clung!
'Tis the king, who's now called by his nation—but hold!—
I see by your eyes that you guess him—
Then drink to a name with the proudest enrolled—
Here's “Philip of France, God bless him!”
God bless him!
Here's “Philip of France, God bless him!”

Oh, proud was the day, when the spirit of France
In the might of its energy rose;
And, teaching a new sort of national dance,
Astonished old tyranny's toes!
And such be the lesson by nations still taught,
When Despots shall dare to oppress 'em.

Then fill up once more, lads, and drink as ye ought,
“The People of France, God bless 'em!”
God bless 'em!
“The People of France, God bless 'em!”

O'Doherty sings his translation.

Drink and drown your politics!
Curse the trash of Colburn!
D---n “New Monthly's” greasy wicks,
Dimly as the whole burn!
Banished from our jovial board
Be the lack-a-daisy horde!

Banished be the leaden lore,
Worse than edgeless razor!
Heavy fools! who fain would soar,
Go and study Fraser!
Still Regina's rule be mine—
Wit and Wisdom's fount is wine!

Mr. Jesse's Song.

From that pure author, Nature, came
One article without a heading;
You stare—but I'll just prove that same—
She manufactured Cyrus Redding!
Witless Cyrus,
Born to tire us,
Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus Redding!

And, knowing what he'd have to do,
She gave his roof an inside leading;
And said—“Wit's shaft shall ne'er pierce through
The thick lined top of Cyrus Redding.

Silly Cyrus,
Born to tire us,
Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus Redding!”

Then Cyrus grew a lanky lad,
Few notions in his brains imbedding;
“Much thinking,” thought he, “drives men mad.”
Well, there you're safe, sweet Cyrus Redding.
Lanky Cyrus,
Born to tire us,
Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus Redding!

“But though not born, it seems, to think,
My stomach can 't want meat and breading;
Nor must my throttle thirst for drink—
I'll be a scribe,” said Cyrus Redding.
Scribbling Cyrus,
Born to tire us,
Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus Redding!

So he began to scribble trash,
Nor gods, nor men, nor columns dreading;
Till something whispered—“Cut and slash,
And fawn and slaver, Cyrus Redding.”
Slav'ring Cyrus,
Born to tire us,
Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus Redding!

He heard the voice and joined Reviewers,
Their tea-cup twaddle widely spreading,
With minds as bright as Barclay's brewers'
And hearts like that of Cyrus Redding.
Twaddling Cyrus,
Born to tire us,
Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus Redding!

Until he gained King Campbell's grace
We scorn to track his tortuous threading—
Judge they who 've looked upon his face,
'Twixt Jerry Sneak and Cyrus Redding.
Sneaking Cyrus,
Born to tire us,
Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus Redding!

And now he reigns, the L. U.'s Sec.,
The bottle's blood profusely shedding,

Oh, that a rope but held the neck
And we the heels of Cyrus Redding!
That thought—Cyrus,
Shall inspire us!
Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus Redding!
And be d---d to him!

(Multifarious applause—and shortly after a most outrageous roar of laughter.)

[Whisky mixed up with water]

Whisky mixed up with water,
Quenching his thirst,
With three parts of the first,
Moistened off with a part of the latter:

Lay of the Whipper-in.

You all knew Bill Sligo, the Whipper-in, well—
'Mong a thousand his crack you'd be certain to tell;
On the night of division his voice would be hard,
From the North to the South of yon Old Palace Yard.
“Hark—hark!—in and in—hither come to the vote!”
And so old Bill Sligo kept straining his throat.

When the moment appeared that the game was at bay,
And the thing should be settled at once, “aye or nay,”

Old Bill shewed his face, dashed the thong all around—
From each lurking spot he sure brought up his hound.
“Yoicks, Bathurst—Dundas, halloo!—Squeakum, ho! Wynn—
Hark to Old Billy Sligo, who's whipping you in.

Ho! whelps out of Ireland—Ho, hounds North of Tweed!
High, close to the cover—or else no more feed.
Hollo, Croker—Ho! Murr—Mangy Georgebob, Twiss, haw!
Bloody Jem, Scruffy Franky, whelp Tommy Macaw;
Keep up, keep ye up, steady there, Sturdy Bourne!”
Songs Old Bill Sligo to each in his turn.

When at last shall ill luck put him out of his sate,
O, think of him, lads, on the night of Debate;
Think how well he his whip, my dear bastes, had applied,
How so long he had kept you from running all wide;
And his place in the writ as the Speaker shall fill,
Give three hearty view hollows for poor Sligo Bill.

Song.

[Oh! 'tis sweet to think that ratting will thrive]

Oh! 'tis sweet to think that ratting will thrive,
And that we may leave old friends in the lurch;
That the Duke to his brother-apostates will give
High station and rank in our Protestant church!

Dean Philpotts, perchance, had been always a dean,
Had he stuck by his High Church and old Tory pals;
So a traitor he turned, and a rat he has been,
In the hope of obtaining the pontificals.

Then, ho to apostates!—'tis pleasant to think
That your only wise men are apostates and knaves;
Though their names in posterity's nostrils should stink,
Will a trifle like this disturb them in their graves?

[In Liverpool's good easy times]

[_]

Tune—The Vicar of Bray.

In Liverpool's good easy times,
When church and king no harm meant,
I stuck to old Shute Barrington,
And so I got preferment.
By Scarlett's help, the radicals
O' the Durham press I stampt on,
And on the hustings, day-by-day,
I bearded yellow Lambton.

And this is law I shall maintain,
And sure it is no vain hope,

That if I stick by powers that be,
I'll be the vicar o' Stanhope.

I wrote a letter very fine,
Frank Jeffrey all defying;
I knew the fellow would not fight,
And so I called him lying.
I published, too, a book so smart,
That all the Papists flouted;
Which sweet Jack Copley got by heart,
And in the Commons spouted.

And, &c.

But under good Duke Wellington
The times are altered fairly;
His Grace has eaten all his words—
Belied himself most rarely.
And so Old Nick take Barrington,
To whom I owed my station;
Ascendancy the de'il may sweep
Huzza for 'mancipation!

And, &c.

O'Connell is a pretty youth—
Jack Doyle a lively scholar—
Old Eldon's creed, since lost his place,
I prize not half a dollar.
Gulph down—gulph down, old thoughts, old oaths,
Curse on each ancient bias;
And if 'twould get a bishoprick,
God save our Lord Pope Pius!

And, &c.

The Wind and the Wave.

We go wherever the wind and the wave
May chance in their pleasure to bear us;
They may waft us to home, they may find us a grave—
From all that we loved they may tear us:

But where'er the winds blow, and where'er the waves flow,
We cheerily, merrily, sing as we go,
The wind and the wave for ever!

Alike we 're ready to frolic or fight,
For pleasure no boys are more ready—
And we out with our guns if the foe come in sight,
Then “fire away, Lads, and stand steady!”
And spite of the number and force of the foe,
We pour in our shot, and we sing as we go,
The wave of Old England for ever!

When back returned we are safe on the shore,
Then smack go the lips of the lasses;
And the number of blessings this earth has in store
We count by the number of glasses—
Then sail off again, and where'er the winds blow,
We cheerily, merrily, sing as we go,
The wind and the wave for ever!