 | The Glasgow Whigs of eighteen hundred & twenty-one |  |
Thus has he (and many more of the same breed, that, I know,
the drossy age dotes on,) only got the tune of the time, and outward
habit of encounter; a kind of yesty collection, which carries
them through and through the most fond and winnowed opinions,
and do but blow them to their trial, the bubbles are out.
Shakespeare.
THE GLASGOW WHIGS.
Mighty Alonzo! haste thee forward now,
And smooth the wrinkles of thy awful brow;
Lay state aside;—enter without a fee;
The Whiggish Temple hath a niche for thee;
From the pedestal thou may'st wildly stare,
And imitate Apollo Belvidere!
And smooth the wrinkles of thy awful brow;
Lay state aside;—enter without a fee;
The Whiggish Temple hath a niche for thee;
From the pedestal thou may'st wildly stare,
And imitate Apollo Belvidere!
But hark ye John, thy state I do not grudge,
Even tho' the Master of a Mason Lodge;
I care not tho' ye sit as grandly free,
As a tall Monkey on a Banyian Tree!
Thy wit ne'er moveth me, thy Puns, and stuff;—
(And God knows John, they're impotent enough)
It angers me to see,—nay don't look big;
A Justice of the Peace, an arrant Whig;
Who holds a civic post, (mayhap for pelf)
And dare insult even Majesty itself.
Even tho' the Master of a Mason Lodge;
I care not tho' ye sit as grandly free,
As a tall Monkey on a Banyian Tree!
Thy wit ne'er moveth me, thy Puns, and stuff;—
(And God knows John, they're impotent enough)
It angers me to see,—nay don't look big;
A Justice of the Peace, an arrant Whig;
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And dare insult even Majesty itself.
Were I an inmate of the Merchant Hall,
I'd have thee Summon'd by a general call,
Dismiss thee from thy post;—but ere ye went,
I'd urge a motion to make thee content;
Send a petition to the Queen, in fine,
To dub thee Grand Knight of St. Caroline!!!
I'd have thee Summon'd by a general call,
Dismiss thee from thy post;—but ere ye went,
I'd urge a motion to make thee content;
Send a petition to the Queen, in fine,
To dub thee Grand Knight of St. Caroline!!!
In name of Heaven; say what wouldst thou be at,
Thou Strutting self-important Democrate?
The Nerves of State may quiver for awhile,
When wild confusion shakes our lovely Isle;
Britian may upward turn her fever'd eye,
Imploring pity from each passer by;
I say she may, but ere that time will come,
The Whigish Natives will be cold and Dumb;
But when She's sick;—past State Physicians' skill,—
She 'll never send for Thee to draw her will;
For thou wilt ne'er be wise, I this can tell,
Tho' Seven times brayed in a large Mortar well.
Thou Strutting self-important Democrate?
The Nerves of State may quiver for awhile,
When wild confusion shakes our lovely Isle;
Britian may upward turn her fever'd eye,
Imploring pity from each passer by;
I say she may, but ere that time will come,
The Whigish Natives will be cold and Dumb;
But when She's sick;—past State Physicians' skill,—
She 'll never send for Thee to draw her will;
For thou wilt ne'er be wise, I this can tell,
Tho' Seven times brayed in a large Mortar well.
John, thou art Brave; yes, yes, exceeding Brave!
Thou'st given, yea taken a drubbing from a Knave,
The Bard's in peril;—I my danger feel,
An ounce of Lead, John?—or an Inch of Steel?
Thou'st given, yea taken a drubbing from a Knave,
The Bard's in peril;—I my danger feel,
An ounce of Lead, John?—or an Inch of Steel?
I'm marshaling the Whigs in good array!
And Marshal shall not be behind to-day;
He's a fine fellow! of a fair degree,
A Sour Crab Apple on a Stunted Tree!
In John-Street he must his proud station take,
(Thy rebel Ass, Balaam! too once spake)
Prating some jargon 'bout the Glorious cause,
Of Britain's Queen, and Britain's injur'd Laws;—
5
He's a fine fellow! of a fair degree,
A Sour Crab Apple on a Stunted Tree!
In John-Street he must his proud station take,
(Thy rebel Ass, Balaam! too once spake)
Prating some jargon 'bout the Glorious cause,
Of Britain's Queen, and Britain's injur'd Laws;—
Marshal! thou knowest as much about the Law,
Or Constitution; as an old Jack Daw;
Thou mend the Constitution!—silly elf,—
Go home, go home and cobble up thyself;—
I wield a Sword; but Mercy smoothes my brow,
I'm merely striking with the flat side now;
But if at other meetings ye engage,
Marshal! I can, and will, smite with the edge.
Or Constitution; as an old Jack Daw;
Thou mend the Constitution!—silly elf,—
Go home, go home and cobble up thyself;—
I wield a Sword; but Mercy smoothes my brow,
I'm merely striking with the flat side now;
But if at other meetings ye engage,
Marshal! I can, and will, smite with the edge.
Mc Grigor thou mayest lour thy heavy eye,
And scoul upon my Bardship passing by;
I care not for the murmurs of thy tribe,
And he is Brave, who can out-brave a Scribe!
And scoul upon my Bardship passing by;
I care not for the murmurs of thy tribe,
And he is Brave, who can out-brave a Scribe!
Lover of Anarchy! say wouldst thou draw,
A fiery circle round our noble Law?
That none might dare approach the burning pile,
And thou mayest fatten on confusion's spoil?
I know thou wouldst;—thy speech right well can show,
The cunning Lawyer, and the Country's foe;—
If thou had'st but the power as well's the will;
To cut bright order, as thou cut'st a Quil;
Then wouldst thou head the desolating Band
And send an Earthquake thro' my native Land!
The Queen! is it the Queen who stirs thee up?
And fills the measure of thy Whiggish cup?
I'st for her welfare thou wouldst bare the Land,
And lead confusion to her fiery brand?—
Take care Mc Grigor! if thou wert alone,
Thou may'st then humble, or exalt thy tone;
Few; few, would mind thee, feeble is thy aim,
But many sparks will make a furious Flame.
A fiery circle round our noble Law?
That none might dare approach the burning pile,
And thou mayest fatten on confusion's spoil?
I know thou wouldst;—thy speech right well can show,
The cunning Lawyer, and the Country's foe;—
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To cut bright order, as thou cut'st a Quil;
Then wouldst thou head the desolating Band
And send an Earthquake thro' my native Land!
The Queen! is it the Queen who stirs thee up?
And fills the measure of thy Whiggish cup?
I'st for her welfare thou wouldst bare the Land,
And lead confusion to her fiery brand?—
Take care Mc Grigor! if thou wert alone,
Thou may'st then humble, or exalt thy tone;
Few; few, would mind thee, feeble is thy aim,
But many sparks will make a furious Flame.
| The Glasgow Whigs of eighteen hundred & twenty-one | |