The political and occasional poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed ::

“My lords, since things at last are come
To such a situation,
That members of the Church of Rome
Grow weary of starvation;
Since in the Commons House for once
Some common sense is seated,
Since Mr. Bankes is called a dunce
And Mr. Peel defeated;
Since Noble Lords begin to joke
When Orthodoxy preaches,
And toil profanely to provoke
Meek prelates to make speeches;
Since Plunket is not deemed a thief;
Since placemen talk of reason;
Since freedom is not unbelief,
Nor toleration treason,
Nought but a Godhead, or an ass,
Can mar this wicked work.
My Lords, this Bill shall never pass,
So help me God!” said York.

“Though Mr. Leslie Foster winced
From what he once asserted;

Though Mr. Brownlow is convinced,
And Mr. North converted;
Though even country gentlemen
Are sick of half their maggots,
And rustics mock the Vicar, when
He prates of fiery faggots;
Though Hume and Brougham and twenty more
Are swaggering and swearing,
And Scarlett hopes the scarlet whore
Will not be found past bearing;
Though Reverend Norwich does not mind
The feuds of two and seven,
And trusts that humble prayer may find
A dozen roads to Heaven;
Till royal heads are lit with gas—
Till Hebrews dine off pork—
My Lords, this Bill shall never pass,
So help me God!” said York.

“Let England from her slumbers wake
To greet her best adviser,
And know, that nought on earth can make
The Heir Apparent wiser.
I care not how the seasons fly;
How circumstances alter;
I care not for necessity,
Which makes Olympus falter;

I care not for a Parliament;
I care not for a people;
I care not for an argument
As long as Strasburg steeple;
I care not who are faithful still,
I care not who are failers,
In short, I care for Burdett's bill
As much as for my tailor's;
And though the rebels rise en masse
With bludgeon and with fork,
My Lords, this Bill shall never pass,
So help me God!” said York.

“Oh, yes, let English wrath appal
The Irish brutes and Catos;
And let the curse of famine fall
On all who eat potatoes;
Let gold, my Lords, be spent like dust,
Let blood be spilt like water,
Let churchmen preach by cut and thrust,
And educate by slaughter;
Let Bradley King and Harcourt Lees
Awake their zeal and learning,
And nib their pen for rhapsodies,
And light their torch for burning;
Let Paget choose a proper stand
Against the Pope's invaders,

And Chester raise his reverend hand
To bless the Lord's crusaders;
Let Ireland read a mournful mass
From Holyhead to Cork:
My Lords, this Bill shall never pass,
So help me God!” said York.

“And think, my Lords! when kings are crowned
A solemn oath is plighted;
Which he who thinks an empty sound
Is grievously benighted;
And sure, my Lords, that noble lord
Has very little breeding
Who asks a king to break his word
To save a little bleeding!
I speak my own peculiar creed;
I answer for no other;
Of course I don't presume to read
The conscience of my brother;
But I, where'er my head may rest,
Whate'er my lot or station—
I pledge myself to do my best
To plague the Irish nation.
There once a clever fable was
About a Log, and Stork:
My Lords, this Bill shall never pass,
So help me God!” said York.

University of Virginia Library

IX. WISDOM OF THE GREAT COUNCIL. II.