The political and occasional poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed ::

We're sick of this distressing state
Of order and repose;
We have not had enough of late
Of blunders, or of blows;
We can't endure to pass our life
In such a humdrum way;
We want a little pleasant strife—
The Whigs are in to-day!

124

Our worthy fathers were content
With all the world's applause;
They thought they had a parliament,
And liberty, and laws.
It's no such thing; we've wept and groaned
Beneath a despot's sway;
We've all been whipped, and starved, and stoned—
The Whigs are in to-day!

We used to fancy Englishmen
Had broken Europe's chain,
And won a battle, now and then,
Against the French in Spain;
Oh no! we never ruled the waves,
Whatever people say;
We've all been despicable slaves—
The Whigs are in to-day!

It's time for us to see the things
Which other folk have seen;
It's time we should cashier our kings,
And build our guillotine;
We'll abrogate Police and Peers,
And vote the Church away;
We'll hang the parish overseers—
The Whigs are in to-day!

125

We'll put the landlords to the rout;
We'll burn the College Halls;
We'll turn St. James's inside out,
And batter down St. Paul's.
We'll hear no more of Bench or Bar;
The troops shall have no pay:
We'll turn adrift our men of war—
The Whigs are in to-day!

We fear no bayonet or ball
From those who fight for hire;
For Baron Brougham has told them all
On no account to fire.
Lord Tenterden looks vastly black;
But Baron Brougham, we pray,
Will strip the ermine from his back—
The Whigs are in to-day!

Go pluck the jewels from the Crown,
The colours from the mast,
And let the Three per Cents. come down—
We can but break at last.
If Cobbett is the first of men,
The second is Lord Grey;
Oh must we not be happy, when
The Whigs are in to-day!

126

II. THE CONVERT.

Good Lady Grace, the charming Blue,
Who lately loved, in Grosvenor Square,
To lecture to a favoured few
On birds and fishes, light and air,
Now flings her learned toys away,
And spells the wisdom of the Sun,
And whispers fifty times a day,
“Dear cousin, something must be done!”

She fears the rabble scarcely grow
A jot less apt to drink and swear;
She vows that Hume and Brougham and Co.
Are just as shocking as they were;

127

What once she said of Mr. Grey
She says as plainly of his son;
She talks of Cobbett with dismay;
But bless her! something must be done.

She thinks as fondly as she thought
Of those that sailed with old Pellew;
She can't conceive that bondsmen fought
With Wellington at Waterloo;
She boasts of Britain's old renown,
Her dangers dared, her laurels won,
Her blameless Church, her bloodless Crown;
Alas! but something must be done.

She finds that speeches still are made,
And laws, and quartern loaves, and rhymes;
She finds the Three per Cents. are paid,
As they were paid in olden times;
She don't believe she's older now
Than when she laughed at Canning's fun;
But yet, no matter why or how,
She's sure that something must be done.

Come, ye who have been blind so long,
And see, by wisdom's modern light,

128

Whatever has been, may be wrong,
Whatever is not, must be right.
Lord Brougham is in Lord Eldon's place;
The Whig millennium is begun;
Who would not vote, with Lady Grace,
That somehow something must be done?

129

III. ODE TO POPULARITY.

130

“Quis multâ gracilis te puer in rosâ
Perfusus liquidis urget odoribus,
Grato, Pyrrha, sub antro?”
—Hor., I. 3.

O fondest—and O frailest fair
That ever made a poet swear,
Bewitching Popularity!
O patroness of songs and scents,
Of budgets and disfranchisements,
Of treason and vulgarity—

Tell me whom now your fickle pen
Pronounces first of mortal men
In magazine or journal?
For whom the golden lute you wake,
And whose renown you mean to make
For just nine weeks eternal?

Dote you on Grey's experienced brow,
Because he's quite as silly now
As erst our fathers found him?
Or do you lead the approving cheer
When Baron Brougham, the peerless peer,
Is flinging dirt around him?

131

Does soft Sir James, by talking big
Of rope and cable, sloop and brig,
Persuade you he's a hero?
Or does Sir Thomas please you more
By telling, as he told before,
The history of Nero?

O Waterloo! You used to say
You never would forget the day
That cracked the French cuirasses;
But Wednesday last, at half-past ten,
You let the ragged gentlemen
Smash all his Grace's glasses.

You know you've jilted St. John Long,
And bidden Southwark's noisy throng
Send poor Sir Robert packing;
You know, without a reason why,
You're burning Hunt in effigy,
And leaving off his blacking.

Happy on whom untried you smile!
He dreams not for how short a while
You solemnize the wedding;
How soon you jump from wreaths to stones,
From Wellington to Colonel Jones,
From kissing to beheading.

132

Such stormy waves are not for me;
As Graham says, I've seen the sea
Suck down the struggling packet;
And I renounce the sail and oar,
And hang to dry upon the shore
My trousers and my jacket.

133

IV. THE COMPLAINT OF LIBERTY.

134

“Lord!” said the little woman, “this can be none of I”—Old Song.

“O Liberty! whose radiant charms
Were so adored by Thebes and Sparta—
Bright patroness of arts and arms,
And authoress of Magna Charta—
Nymph! for whose sake, as we are taught,
In Plutarch's entertaining stories,
Speeches were made, and battles fought,
By Greek and Roman, Whigs and Tories;

“Come hither with your pen and sword,
Your russet garb and mess of pottage;
Leave the wild Arab's wandering horde,
Or the rude Switzer's humble cottage;
Let Lafayette console Lafitte;
Let Congress sit a day without you;
Smile, smile, for once, on Downing Street
I want to write an ode about you!”

She came—she answered. Well I know
The Speaker's awful call to order;

135

I heard, some thirteen years ago,
A sentence from the late Recorder;
I know how hoarse the cheerers are,
When Whig lords prate of right intention;
But, oh! that fearful voice was far
More fearful than the sounds I mention.

“I come,” she said, “the same who erst
Held talk with Xenophon and Plato;
Taught Brutus to be firm, and nurst
The fire of high resolve in Cato;
The same who on your island rock
Have mocked the hand of sceptred power;
Who went with Sidney to the block,
And with the Bishops to the Tower.

“Alas! my handmaids, in such days,
Were Wisdom, Order, and Sobriety;
What loathsome change! My Broughams and Greys
Have dragged me into strange society;
Treason and Strife invoke my name
In their dark plots and drunken quarrels;
I'm growing weary of my fame;
And Jove! how ill I look in laurels!

“I am not what I was; I throw
Prodigious stones in Clare and Kerry;

136

I cheat the Greeks with prudent Joe;
I maximize with sapient Jerry;
Last winter, I confess, I taught
The labouring class the art of arson,
And oft on Sundays I've been caught
With Taylor screaming out “No parson!”

“It's true that still the schoolboy's prayers
Come up to me in so-so Latin;
And still the lying Courier swears
That all my rags are silk and satin;
And I've a friend at Court, I think;
But he will doom me to the halter,
When once he hears me in my drink
Speak out about the throne and altar.

“Farewell! my anguish would defy
E'en Althorp's powers of clear expression;
I'm quite convinced that I shall die
Before the closing of the session;
I'd go with pleasure to the grave;
But oh! the thought is overpowering—
They tell me I am sure to have
An epitaph from Doctor Bowring!”

137

V. WHY AND WHEREFORE.

“Come, your reason, Jack, your reason.”—Shakespeare.

I was a Tory once, you know,
A king and constitution man;
But that was many years ago,
Before the march of mind began.
'Twas very well to be a dunce
When no one asked me why or how;
I own, I was a Tory once;
But Lord! I'm not a Tory now.

138

The schoolmaster's abroad, you see;
And, when the people hear him speak,
They all insist on being free,
And reading Homer in the Greek;
The Bolton weavers seize the pen,
The Sussex farmers scorn the plough;
One must advance with other men;
And so, I'm not a Tory now.

Look at the papers! There you'll find
The Courier full of Cobbett's taunts;
Lord Palmerston has changed his mind;
And what's become of both the Grants?
How should I hope to stem the storm
Which makes such mighty statesmen bow?
Why, Goderich is for this Reform!
And who would be a Tory now?

And then, the people are stark mad!
They go about with sticks and stones!
And these accounts are very bad
Of broken glass and broken bones;
Poor Cockburn had some shocking hurts;
I never could endure a row;
They tore Sir Roger Gresley's skirts!
No, no, I'm not a Tory now.

You know my nephew—clever youth—
He came last year from Harrow school;

139

He's done a pamphlet which, in truth,
Makes out that I've been quite a fool.
Pray read this little page, about
The healthy trunk and rotten bough;
It proves, beyond the smallest doubt,
No patriot is a Tory now.

I'll introduce you to my wife;
She brought me fifty thousand pounds;
And she's the blessing of my life,
Although she made me cut the hounds.
She reads the Herald every day,
And talks—'twould do you good, I vow;
She's very partial to Lord Grey;
How can I be a Tory now?

Tom wants a living—what of that?
Brougham never heard me urge his claims.
And Hal's appointed to the Rat!
But—Sir! I never asked Sir James.
Oh no! I like the Church and Laws;
And—candidly, you must allow
That I have shown sufficient cause
Why I am not a Tory now.

140

VI. KING ALFRED'S BOOK.

“His mighty genius prompted him to undertake a most great and necessary work, which he is said to have executed in as masterly a manner;—no less than to new model the Constitution,—to rebuild it on a plan that should endure for ages.”—History of England.

I saw in a dream, on a summer day,
The tomb where the Saxon Solon lay;
And thither the prince of the land was led,
With the robe on his shoulder, the crown on his head;
And they bade him draw from its secret nook
The volume of law, King Alfred's Book.

141

He held the tome in his feeble grasp;
He broke the seals, and he snapped the clasp.
Long years had marred on the dim, dim page
The treasured truth of the Chief and Sage;
And whose were the hands that undertook
To write new words in the holy book?

A laurelled warrior thither came;
How the deep heart thrilled as they named his name!
He gazed on the volume of right and law,
And he turned away from the sight he saw,
Falsehood and blame he would rather brook,
Than sully one page of the time-worn book.

A statesman came, and through the crowd
The murmur of hope was heard aloud;
“Let him trace but a line, and the peril is o'er,
And the leaves shall sleep where they slept before.”
Power and praise his heart forsook;
He turned away from the fearful book.

I saw a hoary dotard stand,
And grasp the pen in his feeble hand;
He had written a rare bold text, they said,
Ere the white snows fell on his plotting head;

142

But now he was grey, and his fingers shook,
As he scrawled and scrawled on the sacred book.

“I have brought,” quoth a schoolboy, “this ruler of mine,
To rule for the letters a fair straight line.”
He babbled of parish, he babbled of town,
And the ruler went up, and the ruler went down;
So crooked was never the crookedest crook
As the line he drew on the wondrous book.

There came a sallow penman now,
With a sneer on his lip and a scowl on his brow;
So quick was his hand, that you saw at a glance
He had learned of the cunning scribes of France:
“Might” for “right” his haste mistook,
And “treason” for “reason” he wrote in the book.

And there was a schoolmaster, tall and thin,
With a solemn smile on his nose and chin;
He smoothed the leaf, and he mended the pen,
And he rapped the knuckles now and then;
“How scared,” quoth he,” the dolts will look
If ever they read what they write in the book!”

“Oh, write what ye may, or write what ye will,”
Said the cry of a mob from a cotton-mill;

143

“The words may be grave, and the wit may be good;
But we're building the gallows, and lighting the wood:
The bird to the snare, and the fish to the hook,
And a rope for the clerks, and a fire for the book!”

144

VII. INTENTIONS.

A REMONSTRANCE IN THE VENTILATOR.

145

Now don't abuse us, Fanny, don't;
You're really too provoking!
I won't sit by, I vow I won't,
To hear your idle croaking.
You seem to think the world is mad
For places and for pensions,
And won't believe—it's quite too bad—
That Whigs have good intentions.

I know that Denman is too rash,
And Graham not too witty;
I know we hear prodigious trash
From members for the City;
Young Thomson is a financier
Of rather small dimensions;
Lord Althorp is not vastly clear:
But all have bright intentions.

The Budget was a slight mistake;
You call it quite correctly;
But then confess, for candour's sake,
We gave it up directly.

146

They laughed it down on every side,
Forgetting their dissensions;
But not a single man denied
It shewed the best intentions.

The Premier has been kind, I own,
To most of his connections;
But Hunt, you see, was quite alone
In making harsh reflections.
The blockhead ought to go to school
And study his declensions;
Then he would judge by better rule
A statesman's grand intentions.

It's true we've not been doing much
To make the Frenchman humble;
And after all those dear, dull Dutch
Have cause enough to grumble.
We cannot see—who says we can?
Through Talleyrand's inventions;
For he's a wicked, clever man;
And we—have pure intentions.

And Fanny—as for this Reform,
Which Peel pronounces treason,
Indeed I think you make a storm
Without sufficient reason.

147

The Bill is full of faults no doubt,
But, as my husband mentions,
One would not have a fault struck out
Which flows from just intentions.

Some say the Bill destroys the Crown;
Some swear it galls the people;
Some see the peerage tumbling down,
Some fear for Church and steeple.
There may be good substantial cause
For many apprehensions;
But coûte que coûte, in every clause
There's proof of right intentions.

We can't expect that Brougham and Hume
Will lay their horrid plans down.
But, dearest love, you won't assume
The fault is with Lord Lansdowne!
They can't do harm—or if they do,
In spite of wise preventions,
I hate their schemes, but, entre nous,
I honour their intentions.

148

VIII. THE BEGGAR'S PETITION.

149

“Extremum Tanain si biberes, Lyce,” etc.—Hor., III. 10.

If you were placed in some rude station
Where no man sighs for stars or garters,
Where Papists shrink from agitation,
And Whigs have some respect for charters,
Still, still, Lord Grey, I'd not be guessing
Why, in your foolish prides and glories,
You'd keep a friend without a blessing,
Placeless and payless, with the Tories.

Ah, don't you see with what barbarity
The members all around me treat me?
Knight's look is not a look of charity;
Sir Edward Sugden longs to beat me;
Croker, bad luck to him, is witty,
And Wetherell is entirely teazing,
And Peel, without a spark of pity,
Sets, now and then, my heart's blood freezing.

150

Och! don't be proud! Sure, cool reflection
Should cure your scoffing and your scorning;
The wheel may turn, and my affection,
Just like the Bill, get lost, some morning:
And though the Duke might look severely
On me and my Associators,
Musha! your father's son should dearly
Esteem all demagogues and traitors.

Be warned; though you are cold and cruel,
Though deputations don't persuade you,
Though you are yet unshaken, jewel,
By all the compliments I've paid you;
Though you are deaf to Grattan's speeches
Which flow as ceaseless as the Shannon,
And blind to those unwilling breaches
Of discipline in sad Duncannon,

Be wise in time. O stubborn-hearted!
Regardless, as an oak, of blarney!
Deaf, as the adders, that departed
Some years ago, from sweet Killarney!
Be wise in time! You won't? Oh murther!
An't we all patriots, stout and manly?
My Lord, we won't put up much further
With bows, and frowns, and Master Stanley.

151

IX. SPEECH OF THE IRISH SECRETARY IN DEFENCE OF THE LORD LIEUTENANT.

152

“On, Stanley, on.”—Marmion

Sir, we have closed our long campaign
Against the troops of Cold Blow Lane;
We've done with Mr. Grattan's votes,
Their venal hearts and ragged coats;
And it is time for me to show
The Castle folk are unsunned snow,
And prove, howe'er the case appears,
His Lordship never interferes.

One Long, a mean and paltry knave,
By reason of the vote he gave,
Has lost most justly, as he feels,
The mending of his Lordship's wheels.
Out on the villain! By my troth,
We won't believe a tradesmen's oath,
When he, the Prince of British Peers,
Declares he never interferes!

As for the lines his Lordship wrote,
To say that every honest vote
Was, as was very right and fair,
Requested here, expected there—

153

I own it was extremely wrong
To be so kind to Mr. Long;
Yet in that letter, who that hears
Will say, his Lordship interferes?

And then, the melancholy fates
Or those poor perjured magistrates,
Who were so wonderfully rude,
And talked of friends, and gratitude:
The men, it's certain, went and did
Exactly as the men were bid;
But Sir, with Mr. Tyndale's tears
The Castle never interferes.

Honest Basseggio next attacks—
The barber—with his battle-axe!
Who vomits speeches brave and big
Against whate'er is wise and Whig;
I'm sure that none who know the case,
And how the barber lost his place,
Can deem with such plebeian fears
His Lordship ever interferes.

Oh, I appeal to all the fame
That crowns that noble person's name;
And I appeal to Captain Hart,
Who could not play the bully's part;

154

And I appeal to Baron Tuyll,
Who sealed his lips up all the while;
And I appeal to those loud cheers—
His Lordship never interferes.

All people, Mr. Speaker, know
Which way his Lordship's wishes go;
And Government, it's also known,
Do as they will with what's their own:
And since my noble friend is right
To interfere with all his might—
I care not for those vulgar sneers—
He never, never interferes.

155

X. SPEECH DELIVERED BY A WORTHY ALDERMAN, SEVERAL TIMES, IN COMMITTEE ON THE REFORM BILL.

I do not rise—I never will—
To make a speech about the Bill;
I only want to urge once more
What I have often urged before;
It can't be doubted or denied,
That members on the other side
Are talking, talking, day by day,
Just for the purpose of delay.

Why, Sir, the nation, as we know,
Passed all the Bill some months ago;

156

And my constituents, Sir, object
To any members who reflect;
And therefore I am bold to state
I disapprove of all debate,
And sit in absolute dismay
When I observe so much delay.

Oh Mr. Bernal, don't forget
The burden of our monstrous debt!
Consider, Sir, how every year
Taxation's growing more severe;
I must assert that I, for one,
Believe the country quite undone;
Some fools dispute it—so they may;
But I protest against delay.

Why, Sir, I'll venture to advance
We were some years at war with France;
And now Britannia's flag is furled,
And we're at peace with all the world.
All honourable members ought
To think as much as I have thought;
Then they would work the shortest way,
And pass the Bill without delay.

And I'm prepared to prove, I trust,
That every word is true and just

157

In all the speeches I have made
On import and on export trade.
Official values, I admit,
Are things beyond my humble wit;
But all these things, I'm sure, display
The dangerous folly of delay.

And Sir, I don't dislike a clause
Because it's full of faults and flaws;
And Sir, I think it's most perverse
To prate of better, or of worse;
And Sir, I find, though members laugh,
Too many lawyers here, by half;
And Sir, I shall advise Lord Grey
To gag them all without delay.

I should be very glad to touch
Upon the French, the Poles, and Dutch
And tell you why I think it sin
To let the foreign silks come in;
But I have always thought it right
To keep the question full in sight
And I should be ashamed to play
The game of men who want delay

Sir, I conclude, as I began,
By begging every honest man

158

To end the nation's doubts and fears,
And hold his tongue, and stop his ears.
Of argument we've had enough;
It's very sudorific stuff;
And I have one thing more to say—
I can't account for this delay.

159

XI. THE BILL, THE WHOLE BILL, AND NOTHING BUT THE BILL.

Come listen, come listen, I'm going to sing
A song that's much newer than “God save the King;”
All about what I think of this wonderful Bill,
Which hasn't passed yet—can you guess when it will?
Derry down.

I hear it's to work us more wonders, some day,
Than Harlequin's wand ever did in the play;

160

It's to make kings and queens out of Jack and of Jill:
Will it ever do this? Why, I don't think it will.
Derry down.

It's to make us new clothes, as I've heard people tell:
A shirt for myself, and a bonnet for Nell;
A bonnet with ribbands, a shirt with a frill;
Will it come to be true? I'll be hanged if it will!
Derry down.

It's to light us a fire, and lay us a bed;
It's to pave Holborn Hill with the best wheaten bread;
It's to bring down fine Hollands to nothing a gill—
Believe, if you like; I'll be whipped if I will.
Derry down.

It's to heal all disorders, wherever it goes,
In the feet and the hands, in the eyes and the nose;
It's to cure gout and ague, instead of a pill.
Some folks say it won't; but Lord John says it will.
Derry down.

It's to give to the troops, and the tars of the fleet,
No jacket to wear, and no pudding to eat;

161

When we've just done away with the mess and the drill,
Will we lick the Mounseers? Ask the Duke if we will.
Derry down.

It's to get us a parson, as good as St. Paul,
Who won't want a lodging or dinner at all;
He'll teach us our duties and preach us our fill,
But as for his tithes—he may starve, if he will.
Derry down.

It's to give us—good luck to it! freedom and trade;
Our goods will be sold, and our debts will be paid.
It will conjure up wealth for the ledger and till—
I wish I could only find out how it will!
Derry down.

It will bring health to sickness, and warmth to the cold,
And wit to the foolish, and youth to the old,
And soup to the saucepan, and grist to the mill—
Fine words, honest friends! But I doubt if it will.
Derry down.

It's to change, in a minute, one guinea to ten;
It's to marry our daughters to handsome young men;

162

It's to make me a singer of science and skill.
If you trust all the rest, don't you trust that it will?
Derry down.

And now here's success to the ancient old cause
Of the King and the People, the Land and the Laws;
And the Devil fly away with the Whigs and the Bill!
(Don't say that I said it) I fancy he will!
Derry down.

163

XII. REASONS FOR NOT RATTING.

“Sound opinions are like sound wine, they are the better for keeping.” —Speech of Lord Dudley, 5th October, 1831.

It was my father's wine. Alas,
It was his chiefest bliss
To fill an old friend's evening glass
With nectar such as this!
I think I have as warm a heart—
As kind a friend as he.
Another bumper ere we part!
Old wine—old wine for me!

In this we toasted William Pitt,
Whom twenty now outshine;
O'er this we laughed at Canning's wit,
Ere Hume's was thought as fine.
In this “The King!” “The Church!” “The Laws!”
Have had their three times three.

164

Sound wine befits as sound a cause;
Old wine—old wine for me!

In this, when France in those long wars
Was beaten black and blue,
We used to drink our troops and tars—
Our Wellesley and Pellew.
Now, things are changed. Though Britain's fame
May out of fashion be,
At least my wine remains the same.
Old wine—old wine for me.

My neighbours, Robinson and Lamb,
Drink French of last year's growth:
I'm sure, however they may sham,
It disagrees with both.
I don't pretend to interfere;
An Englishman is free;
But none of that cheap poison here!
Old wine—old wine for me.

Some dozens lose, I must allow,
Something of strength and hue;
And there are vacant spaces now,
To be filled up with new;
And there are cobwebs round the bins,
Which some don't like to see;
If these are all my cellar's sins,
Old wine—old wine for me!

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.

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.

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.

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 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?

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!

168

XIV. THE YOUNG WHIG.

Oh yes, he is in Parliament,
He's been returning thanks;
You can't conceive the time he's spent
In giving people franks;
He's grown a most important man,
His name's in the Gazette;
And, though he swears he never can—
I'm sure he will—forget.

He talks quite grand of Grant and Grey;
He jests at Holland House;
He dines extremely every day
On ortolans and grouse:

169

Our salads now he will not touch,
He keeps a different set;
They'll never love him half so much
As those he must forget!

He used to write the sweetest things,
In all our Albums, once;
But now his harp has lost the strings;
His muse is quite a dunce.
We read his speeches in the Times,
And vast renown they get;
But all those dear, delicious rhymes
All hearts, but mine, forget.

He flirts this year immensely ill;
His flattery don't improve;
When Weippert plays a gay quadrille,
He sighs, “I rise to move;”
And when I sing “The Soldier's Tear,”
The song he called his “pet,”
He comes and whispers “Hear, hear, hear!
How can he so forget?

I'm studying now, to please his taste,
MacCulloch, Bentham, Mill;
To win his smile, I'm making haste
To understand the Bill;

170

I read the stuff Reviewers write
Of corn, and funds, and debt;
Alas, that all I read at night
With morning I forget!

I wish he'd leave his friend, Lord Brougham,
The realm's disease to cure;
Wherever else, in him there's room
For some reform, I'm sure!
His borough is in Schedule A,
And that's some comfort yet;
'Twill hardly give him time, they say—
Poor fellow! to forget!

171

XV. ODE ADDRESSED TO THE RT. HON. POULETT THOMSON, ON HIS DISCOVERY OF THE FRUCTIFYING PRINCIPLE.

172

Poulett, our ancestors were fools;
But we have lectures, pamphlets, schools,
Lord Brougham and Gower Street College;
All patriots learn to read and write;
And bigots shudder at the light
Of newspapers and knowledge.

Immortal men our Earth have blest;
Great Kitchiner invented yest,
And made mysterious gravy;

173

In jet is blazoned Warren's name;
The safety lamp lights up the fame
Of good Sir Humphrey Davy.

But round thy temples, Thomson, played
(Young Solon of the Board of Trade)
A blaze of brighter glory;
When thou didst make, with wondrous wit,
A surplus of a deficit,
To bother Whig and Tory.

“Let not the creditor be grieved,
Although his cash be not received;”
Oh bliss to hear thee say it!
“How can his interest be worse?
'Tis fructifying in the purse
Of those who ought to pay it!”

The gallery shook at that dark word;
The chief clerk trembled as he heard;
Up started Mr. Speaker:
And thou didst smile on poor Lord A.,
A mild, meek smile, that seemed to say
“Eureka! Lo, Eureka!”

“Henceforth,” Long Wellesley Long Pole said,
“Henceforth I shall not hear with dread
The echoes of my knocker!”

174

Quoth Joseph Hume, “I'll bet a pound
The clever boy has somewhere found
My own new notes on Cocker!”

Harvey and Schonswar cried, “Hear, hear,”
Only poor Waithman did not cheer;
Ah, whence was Waithman's sorrow?
“I wish,” he sighed, “that eight or nine
Good liberal customers of mine
Mayn't see the Times to-morrow!”

Hail, happy Thomson! Fraud and debt
Shall mock the Fleet and the Gazette,
By grace of thine orations;
Fierce Captain Rock, in Clare and Louth,
Shall leave off oaths, and learn to mouth
Thy limpid lucubrations.

Prate on, prate on, oh! not in vain;
So long as London shall contain
A seller and a buyer—
Perish Ricardo, perish Mill!
Thy praise shall be recorded still,
Poulett—the Fructifier!

175

XVI. THE DREAM OF A REPORTER.

“Dreams being, as plays are, the representation of things which do not really happen.”—Johnson's Dictionary.

The speech was dull, the speech was long;
Deep languor o'er my senses crept;

176

I know it was extremely wrong,
But there I nodded, yawned and slept.
I slept. By Lethe's drowsy lake!
I hold him not of woman born,
Who can contrive to keep awake
Through more than half an hour of Horne.

I dreamed a dream. There came a change
On day and night, on heaven and earth;
Whate'er I saw was new and strange;
All Nature had a second birth;
Antiquity began to stare,
Arithmetic was all aghast,
For round was turning into square,
And two and two were five, at last!

Above, below, methought I saw
More marvels than the Muse can name;
A Denman with a little law;
A Harvey with some sense of shame.
Methought I heard Lord Althorp say
A thing which Canning might have said,
And found that Lord John Russell's play
Was pretty generally read.

Calley was sober; Hunt was dumb;
Sir Henry Parnell had no plan;

177

Sheil reasoned; Stanley was become
A most good-natured gentleman;
There were no robbers left in Greece;
There were no papists left in Rome;
And Clare and Kerry were at peace;
So, also, was thy nose, Lord Brougham!

I too was changed. I wrote a speech
To prove my grandfather a slave;
I taught what Scotch Reviewers teach;
I raved as Bowring's pupils rave.
At city feasts I learnt to bless
The memory of immortal Cade,
And “fructified” with great success,
One morning, at the Board of Trade.

I felt that Whiggism was divine;
I bowed immensely low at Sheen;
I praised Lord Holland's wit and wine;
I wrote a libel on the Queen.
I whispered that the Bishops want
The schoolmaster's instructive rod,
And vowed that it is monstrous cant
To talk of Providence or God.

Apt student in the Liberal school,
I earned my patron's worthless pay;

178

I took a cheque from Wellesley Pole,
And worse, a title from Lord Grey.
Alas, it was a dream of fear,
A dream of guilt, a dream of pain;
For all O'Connell bagged last year
I would not dream that dream again!

179

XVII. THE NEW LIGHT.

BY AN ADMIRER OF JOSEPH HUME, ESQ., M.P.

180

“Te sequar, O Graiæ gentis decus.”—Lucr.

I must confess I like the plan
Which Joseph Hume has taught,
For saving to an honest man
The toil and time of thought.
I used to have a foolish way
Of doing what was right;
But now, I'm all for Brougham and Grey;
I'll vote that black is white.

That Russian Loan, in proper place,
I own a sad faux pas;
In spite of Palmerston's grimace,
In spite of Denman's law.
But why should either fret and fume,
Smooth Lord or learned Knight?

181

It's wasting words. I'll follow Hume,
I'll vote that black is white.

When Goulburn talks, to make a shine,
Of income falling off,
Sometimes I go away to dine,
Sometimes I stay to cough.
Let dear Lord Althorp fructify
To Thomson's great delight;
I'll keep my Cocker in my eye,
I'll vote that black is white.

The Whigs may move in Parliament
That Jones has filled Gazettes,
That Grecian scrip pays ten per cent.,
Or Wellesley Pole his debts;
That all O'Connell says is true,
That good is bad, day night;
Move what they will, I'll help them through
I'll vote that black is white.

If Plenty leaves our land to-day,
I'll say she comes in showers;
If we fall down to Gallia's sway,
I'll swear she bends to ours;
If heavy taxes gall you, sir,
I'll prove to you they're light;

182

And if you blame the minister,
I'll vote that black is white.

I know that Joseph's full of fear,
I'll vote that he is brave;
I know his fame's not very clear,
I'll vote he is no knave;
I know that Joseph is a quack,
I'll vote he's Solon, quite;
In short, I know that black is black,
I'll vote that black is white.

183

XVIII. LONG AGO.

To the Editor of the “Morning Post.”

Sir,—The sentimental song of which I send you a copy has just been published by Mr. Chappell. The author of it has most impudently, and without any acknowledgment, adapted to his own purposes the words of an affectionate effusion which I poured forth some months ago upon occasion of the triumphant exaltation of one of my fellow-radicals to those honours and emoluments to which we all aspire.

I beg you to insert the original stanzas, and to aid me in the exposure of the plagiary. My servile imitator may have the applause of the boarding-school, but justice will be done me at the Free-and-Easy.

I am, Sir, your obedient servant, A Westminster Elector.

184

“We were children together! Oh, brighter than mine,” etc.

We were patriots together; Oh, placeman and peer
Are the patrons who smile on your labours to-day;
And Lords of the Treasury lustily cheer
Whatever you do, and whatever you say.
Go, pocket, my Hobhouse, as much as you will;
The times are much altered, we very well know;
But will you not, will you not, talk to us still,
As you talked to us once, long ago, long ago?

We were patriots together! I know you will think,
Of the cobblers' caresses, the coal-heavers' cries,
Of the stones that we threw, and the toasts that we drink,
Of our pamphlets and pledges, our libels and lies!
When Truth shall awake, and the country and town
Be heartily weary of Althorp and Co.,
My Hobhouse, come back to the Anchor and Crown,
Let us be what we were long ago—long ago!

185

XIX. PLUS DE POLITIQUE.

“Je n' en parlerai plus.”—de Béranger.

No politics! I cannot bear
To tell our ancient fame;
No politics! I do not dare
To paint our present shame.

186

What we have been, what we must be,
Let other minstrels say;
It is too dark a theme for me:
No politics to-day!

I loved to see the captive's chain
By British hands burst through;
I loved to sing the fields of Spain,
The war of Waterloo,
But now the Russian's greedy swords
Are edged with English pay;
We help—we hire the robber hordes:
No politics to-day!

I used to look on many a home
Of industry and art;
I gazed on pleasure's gorgeous dome,
On labour's busy mart:
From Derby's rows, from Bristol's fires,
I turn with tears away;
I can't admire what Brougham admires:
No politics to-day!

I've often heard the faithless French
Denounced by William Pitt;
I've watched the flash, from this same bench,
Of Canning's polished wit;

187

And when your Woods and Waithmans brawl,
Your Humes and Harveys bray—
Good Lord! I'm weary of them all!
No politics to-day!

Let's talk of Coplestone and prayers,
Of Kitchiner and pies,
Of Lady Sophonisba's airs,
Of Lady Susan's eyes;
Let's talk of Mr. Attwood's cause,
Of Mr. Pocock's play—
Of fiddles—bubbles—rattles—straws!
No politics to-day!

188

XX. THE MAGIC BENCH.

I have heard of a lamp, whose virtue makes
Pearls of pebbles, and lawns of lakes;
I have heard of a wand, whose mystic gold
Turns lovely to loathsome, young to old;
But there is a Bench, of power to change
Far more rapid, and far more strange,

189

Than ever was given to mortal hand
By the mightiest charms of Fairyland.

A dull lord breathed a bitter curse
On the knaves that were robbing the public purse;
For nobody now, he was bold to declare,
In castle or cot, had a guinea to spare;
And the debt and the taxes made him fear
That the nation would all be starved next year.
But he sits on the Bench, and people say
He has flung five millions of money away.

A Baronet came from the far far North,
And he poured huge rivers of rhetoric forth,
Prating of fetters, and prating of thrones,
With serious looks, and solemn tones;
And quoting bits of Latin lore
To make the country members roar.
But he sits on the Bench, and he's as dumb
As an unstrung lute, or a broken drum.

A little man with a hooked nose came;
His voice was thunder, his glance was flame;
He said he had seen, and he heaved a sigh,
A hero flogged who was six feet high;

190

And he thought it a horrid, heathenish plan,
To punish the faults of so tall a man.
But he sits on the Bench, and the drummers vow
He carries a “cat” in his pocket now.

I saw a wise Lord John, who took,
Wherever he went, a learned book;
It treated of Commons, it treated of Crown,
Of building up, and of pulling down;
All cried who could—or could not—read,
The book was a charming book indeed.
But he sits on the Bench, and it's quite absurd,
He has eaten the volume every word.

Many I see who, years ago,
Were as white and fair as the new fallen snow;
But they sit on the Bench, and lo! they're black
As the plumage on the raven's back;
And many whom we measured then,
Were found to be enormous men;
But they sit on the Bench, and it's pretty well known
How very little they all are grown.

Would'st thou go thither? Oh study well
How thou may'st break the perilous spell!

191

Heed not a threat, and hear not a gibe;
Shun no labour, and touch no bribe:
Let the bright dame Honour be
Ever a guard and a guide to thee;
Love not the traitors, and trust not the French;
And so be safe on the Magic Bench!

192

XXI. PLEDGES.

BY A TEN-POUND HOUSEHOLDER.

When a gentleman comes
With his trumpets and drums,
And hangs out a flag at the Dragon,
Some pledges, no doubt,
We must get him to spout
To the shop-keepers, out of a wagon.

For although an M.P.
May be wiser than we
Till the House is dissolved, in December,
Thenceforth, we're assured,
Since Reform is secured,
We'll be wiser by far than our member.

193

A pledge must be had
That, since times are so bad,
He'll prepare a long speech, to improve them;
And since taxes, at best,
Are a very poor jest,
He'll take infinite pains to remove them.

He must promise and vow
That he'll never allow
A Bishop to ride in his carriage;
That he'll lighten our cares
By abolishing prayers,
And extinguishing baptism and marriage.

He must solemnly say
That he'll vote no more pay
To the troops, in their ugly red jackets;
And that none may complain
On the banks of the Seine,
He'll dismast all our ships, but the packets.

That the labourer's arm
May be stout on the farm,
That our commerce may wake from stagnation,
That our trades may revive,
And our looms look alive,
He'll be pledged to all free importation.

194

And that city and plain
May recover again
From the squabbles of Pitts and of Foxes,
He'll be pledged, amidst cheers,
To demolish the Peers,
And give us the balls and the boxes.

Some questions our wit
May have chanced to omit;
So, for fear he should happen to stumble,
He must promise to go
With Hume, Harvey, and Co.,
And be their obedient and humble.

We must bind him, poor man,
To obey their divan,
However their worships may task him,
To swallow their lies
Without any surprise,
And to vote black is white, when they ask him.

These hints I shall lay,
In a forcible way,
Before an intelligent quorum,
Who meet to debate
Upon matters of State,
To-night, at the National Forum.

195

XXII. HUME TRANSLATED.

“Oh Bottom, thou art changed! what do I see on thee?” “Bless thee, Bottom, bless thee! thou art translated.” Midsummer Night's Dream.

The cunning man has scowled on me
Who changes black to white;
There never came wizard from over the sea
More strong to blast and blight;
He breathes his spell in a dark dark den,
The Chancellor well knows where;
His servants are devils, his wand is a pen,
And his circle is Printing House Square.

196

Many a strange and quaint disguise
The crafty conjuror wears;
Sometimes he mutters blasphemies,
Sometimes he mumbles prayers;
And if he rides to burn a town
On a galloping Broom to-day,
To-morrow he quakes from the sole to the crown
Like a Friar of Orders Grey.

I once was fair; not Waithman's face
Was a fairer face than mine,
Ere the sorcerer's eye had marred the grace
Of the features so divine;
On my brow a few black drops he threw,
And a few fierce words he said,
And lo—and lo—wherever I go
I wear an ass's head!

My hands were once extremely clean,
I was an honest man;
No purer patriot ever was seen
In Freedom's glorious van.
He has withered my arm with a fearful charm;
It was wrought in Greece, they say;
And folks look grave and call me a knave,
In the public streets to-day.

197

I used to cast accounts so fast
That they called me Cocker's son;
The Board of Trade was all aghast
When I rose to carry one;
But since that seal on my fate was set,
I'm as dull as dull can be;
I've quite forgot my tare and tret,
And I've lost my Rule of Three.

A mighty man that juggler is,
So gloomy and so grim;
You shall not find a task, I wis,
Too difficult for him;
He can make Lord Althorp half a wit,
Lord Morpeth not a bore,
And give Lord Palmerston hope to sit
In the seat where he sat before.

Would you retain for a twelvemonth's space
The self-same hue and shape?
Would you shun to change your natural face
For the face of an owl or ape?
Would you pray, through life's uncertain span.
The fame you win to wear?
Avoid, if you can, the cunning man,
Whose circle is Printing House Square!

198

XXIII. THE OLD SOLDIER.

I saw to-day an ancient man,
An ancient man and poor;
And he was sitting with his can
Before his cottage door.
Right kindly he made room for me
Upon the oaken bench,
And “Here's Old England's health” quoth he,
“And sorrow take the French!”

“Good friend,” said I, “you're vastly wrong,
Your wits are all awry;
Mounseer, whom we abused so long,
Is now our best ally.”

199

He laughed outright in merry glee,
And, winking to his wench,
“Why, how his honour jests,” quoth he,
“To say so of the French!”

“In sooth it is a sober tale;”
So I to him replied:
“Together now our navies sail,
Our troops charge side by side.”
He stroked his head, which I might see
Long years began to blench;
“It's hard to swallow, Sir,” quoth he,
“Such stories of the French.”

“Nay, comrade, it were really best
To let these errors sleep;
French patties are superbly drest,
French wine is very cheap.”
He sipped his grog; could better be
A soldier's thirst to quench?
“Unwholesome is the mess,” quoth he,
“Whene'er the cook is French!”

“All this,” I cried, “is idle cant;
To-day new lights advance;
Lord Palmerston and Mr. Grant
Can find no fault with France.”

200

He knocked his pipe against his knee,
The ashes made a stench;
And, “Sir, there was a time,” quoth he,
“They both disliked the French.”

I gave it up: 'twas all in vain:
The veteran had his way;
He talked of Portugal and Spain,
Of Marmont and of Ney;
He talked of tempests on the sea,
Of grape shot in the trench;
“God bless the Duke!” so ended he;
“How he did beat the French!”

201

XXIV. A CABINET CAROL.

“The statesman shews little practical wisdom, who obstinately adheres to his old opinions, when the circumstances which justified them exist no longer.”—Speech of Lord Palmerston.

There was a time when I could sit
By Londonderry's side,
And laugh with Peel at Canning's wit,
And hint to Hume he lied;
Henceforth I run a different race,
Another soil I plough,
And though I still have pay and place,
I'm not a Tory now.

202

I've put away my ancient awe
For mitre and for crown;
I've lost my fancy for the law
Which keeps sedition down;
I think that patriots have a right
To make a little row;
A town on fire's a pretty sight:
I'm not a Tory now.

When Howick damns with bitter sneer
The friends of that vile war,
I whisper into Grant's dull ear
“How just his strictures are!”
When Burdett storms about expense,
A smile comes o'er my brow:
Sir Francis is a man of sense.
I'm not a Tory now.

I learn to be extremely shy
With all my early cons;
I'm very cold at Trinity,
And colder at St. John's;
But then, my Falmouth friends adore
My smile, and tone, and bow;
Don't tell them what I was before—
I'm not a Tory, now!

203

I'm always pleased with Jeffrey's prose,
And charmed with Little's rhymes;
I'm quite convinced the nation owes
Its welfare to the Times.
When people write the K--- a fool,
And call the Q--- a frow,
I'm philosophically cool;
I'm not a Tory now.

If Harvey gets Brougham's seals and seat,
My friend will Harvey be;
If Cobbett dines in Downing Street,
He'll have my three times three;
If Hunt in Windsor Castle rules,
I'll take a house at Slough;
Tories were always knaves and fools.
I'm not a Tory, now!

204

XXV. STANZAS.

BY A TEN POUNDER OBJECTED TO.

Sanctarum inscitia legum.—Hor.

I'm quite amazed! Twelve months and more
I've taken monstrous pains
To raise my friends from shore to shore,
And make them break their chains;
And much I've plotted, much I've planned,
With energy and skill,
And yet I cannot understand
The clauses of the Bill.

The patriots in the papers wrote
To say the fight was won;
Yet some maintain I have a vote,
And some aver I've none;

205

And bless me! do whate'er I can,
And ask where'er I will,
I never find a gentleman
Who comprehends the Bill.

Attorney Fleece is very good
At anything obscure;
If nonsense can be understood,
He'll understand it, sure;
There's no man better at a lease,
Or sharper at a will;
But bless your heart! Attorney Fleece
Is bothered by the Bill!

At Greek or Latin, you may swear,
The schoolmaster is quick;
They say he'll construe, I declare,
Right through a wall of brick;
But he's been poring for a week,
And may be poring still;
It's infinitely worse than Greek—
He can't translate the Bill.

My landlord, old Sir Charles, was sent,
In the most flattering way,
From Hocus Hall to Parliament
To help Reform, and Grey.

206

He sat, Sir, for the nation's sake,
Till sitting made him ill:
And then—'twas easier to make,
Than to make out—the Bill.

At last, to set the matter right,
Two counsellors came down;
And each, to make our darkness light,
Has brought a wig and gown.
But one says “yes,” and t'other “no,”
A—“black,” B—“white,” until
I don't think either seems to know
The meaning of the Bill.

They say Lord Brougham has power to teach
All sorts of puzzling things,
From alphabets and parts of speech
Down to the crimes of kings.
If yet, in pamphlets and reviews,
He loves young minds to drill,
Some day, perhaps, he will diffuse
Some knowledge of the Bill.

207

XXVI. AN EPISTLE

FROM AN OLD ELECTIONEERER TO A YOUNG SECRETARY.

I've canvassed, dear Charles, since we parted,
Our friends in this beautiful town;
But really, I'm quite broken-hearted
To find the good cause going down.
Some pestilent, profligate Tory
Has done all the mischief, no doubt;
The voters are all in one story;
They ask what the war is about.

I tell them of Gatton and Sarum;
I cut up the Bishops and Peers;
I ring the old useful alarum
Of negroes and whips in their ears;

208

I point out the manifold mercies
We've had since Sir Robert went out:
They all put their hands on their purses
And ask what the war is about.

When they drink my success at my dinners,
I speak in an eloquent strain;
And then, sir, the weavers and spinners
Cry “bravo!” and “bravo!” again;
But just in the midst of the cheering
Some brute at the bottom will shout—
“We all of us want to be hearing
What all this here war is about!”

Some come with inquisitive faces,
Some come with inquisitive tones;
One grumbles—another grimaces—
Here pamphlets are flying—there stones.
If I go to a market or masquing,
If I'm one at a row or a rout,
Belles, butchers, all long to be asking—
Ah me! what the war is about.

The Aldermen pause in their feeding
To babble of dam and of dyke;
My Lady insists upon reading
The lines in her book on Van Speyk

209

Sir Andrew jumps up to abuse me,
In spite of his years and his gout,
And his little girl lisps, to amuse me,
“Tell Ma what the war is about.”

We'll carry poor Palmerston through, Charles,
Whatever the country may say;
But his Lordship, between me and you, Charles,
Behaves in a very odd way;
He's clever at jesting and joking,
Which surely we might do without;
But he won't—it's extremely provoking—
Explain what the war is about!

210

XXVII. THE BEGGAR'S THANKS.

“He was grateful for the plan, though he admitted he desired much more.”—Speech of Mr. O'Connell, K.C.

He mutters no threat, he points no gibe,
He speaks in civil tone;
It's truly puzzling to describe
How loyal he is grown.
He owes a debt—it's very sweet
To have such debts to pay;
He owes his thanks to Downing Street—
He's grateful to Lord Grey.

211

In yon green isle it is averred
That treason has been hot;
Some houses have been burnt, I heard,
And some old parsons shot.
But bless my heart! I'm quite prepared
To hope a fairer day;
The great O'Connell has declared
He's grateful to Lord Grey!

He always rises to protest
If people prate of law;
A statute is to him a jest,
An oath a wisp of straw.
Oh surely 'tis a charming plan,
Whatever bigots say,
Which makes so excellent a man
So grateful to Lord Grey!

Go on, my lords and gentlemen!
Pull down what yet remains;
Drive to the Holy Pontiff's pen
His flock of Bourkes and Shanes;
In honest men you'll hear and see
Some anger, some dismay;
But Daniel and his friends will be
More grateful to Lord Grey.

212

XXVIII. A NURSERY SONG.

“I had forgot Waterloo.”
—Joseph Hume.

Hume has been dotting and carrying one,
Hume has been helping O'Connell and son,
Hume has been proving that wrong is right,
Hume has been voting that black is white;
Hume has so many things to do,
Hume has forgotten Waterloo.

Hume has been studying tare and tret,
Hume has been summing the national debt,
Hume has been babbling of silk and grain,
Hume has been poring o'er Cocker and Paine,

213

Hume is a sage and a patriot too—
Hume has forgotten Waterloo.

Hume has been jobbing with infinite skill,
Hume has been treating the poor Greeks ill,
Hume has been rivalling Bowring's crimes,
Hume has been chid in the fierce old Times,
Hume has been reading the Yellow and Blue—
Hume has forgotten Waterloo.

Hume for his toils has a wide wide scope;
Hume is a friend to the friends of the Pope,
Hume has a pleasure in Antwerp's fall,
Hume has an eye on Greece and Gaul,
Hume has a heart for a Quaker or Jew—
Hume has forgotten Waterloo.

Hume has been praising Bentham's schemes,
Hume has been puffing Thomson's dreams,
Hume has been hinting that piety's cant,
Hume has been frightening good Charles Grant;
Hume is to me what he is to you;
Hume has forgotten Waterloo.

214

XXIX. STANZAS

ON SEEING THE SPEAKER ASLEEP IN HIS CHAIR, DURING ONE OF THE DEBATES OF THE FIRST REFORMED PARLIAMENT.

215

Sleep, Mr. Speaker; it's surely fair,
If you don't in your bed, that you should in your chair;
Longer and longer still they grow,
Tory and Radical, Aye and No;
Talking by night, and talking by day;
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sleep, sleep while you may!

Sleep, Mr. Speaker; slumber lies
Light and brief on a Speaker's eyes.
Fielden or Finn, in a minute or two,
Some disorderly thing will do;
Riot will chase repose away;
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sleep, sleep while you may.

Sleep, Mr. Speaker; Cobbett will soon
Move to abolish the sun and moon;
Hume, no doubt, will be taking the sense
Of the House on a saving of thirteen pence;
Grattan will growl, or Baldwin bray;
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sleep, sleep while you may.

Sleep, Mr. Speaker; dream of the time
When loyalty was not quite a crime,
When Grant was a pupil in Canning's school,
And Palmerston fancied Wood a fool.

216

Lord, how principles pass away!
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sleep, sleep while you may.

Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sweet to men
Is the sleep that comes but now and then;
Sweet to the sorrowful, sweet to the ill,
Sweet to the children who work in a mill.
You have more need of sleep than they;
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sleep, sleep while you may.

217

XXX. PATRIOT AND PLACEMAN.

A NEW SONG, INSCRIBED TO THE ELECTORS OF WESTMINSTER.

Sir John was a patriot, who talked to the town
In a very fine style at the Anchor and Crown;

218

Sir John was a placeman, who went to entrench
His wisdom and wit on the Treasury Bench.
Derry Down.

Sir John was a patriot, all stutter and storm,
Who promised the people a ton of Reform!
Sir John was a placeman, who thought it would do
To give the poor people a bushel or two.
Derry Down.

Sir John was a patriot, whose scorn was immense
For the vermin who plundered the poor of their pence;
Sir John was a placeman, who whispered a wish
To honest Lord Grey for a loaf and a fish.
Derry Down.

Sir John was a patriot, who used to exclaim
That flogging tall men was a horrible shame;
Sir John was a placeman, who handled a whip,
And softly requested the privates to strip.
Derry Down.

Sir John was a patriot, who swooned when he saw
A soldier called out in support of the law;
Sir John was a placeman, who sent, I declare,
The Colonels and Captains to Cork and to Clare.
Derry Down.

219

Sir John was a patriot, who valiantly swore
My windows and house should pay taxes no more;
Sir John was a placeman, who fled like a mouse,
When Althorp was taxing my window and house.
Derry Down.

Sir John was a patriot, who happened one day
To creep from his seat and his office away;
Sir John was a placeman, who laboured in vain
To creep to his seat and his office again!
Derry Down.

220

XXXI. WHISTLE.

INTENDED TO BE SUNG BY SIR JOHN CAM HOBHOUSE, AFTER HIS RE-ELECTION FOR WESTMINSTER.

Oh whistle, and I'll come to you, Lord Grey;
Whistle, and I'll come to you, Lord Grey;
Whatever you do, and whatever you say,
Oh whistle, and I'll come to you, Lord Grey!

I promise, of course, what I promised before;
I speak as I spoke, and I swear as I swore;

221

But honest Lord Althorp to-morrow shall see,
A promise is pie-crust to Burdett and me.

So whistle, and I'll come to you, Lord Grey;
Whistle, and I'll come to you, Lord Grey;
Whate'er be the pledges I swallow to-day,
Just whistle, and I'll come to you, Lord Grey.

Perhaps I must talk, as I've talked long enough,
Of taxes, and ballot, and flogging, and stuff;
But Joseph, and Grote, and wise Alderman Key,
You know, will have little assistance from me.

So whistle, and I'll come to you, Lord Grey;
Whistle, and I'll come to you, Lord Grey;
I'm a popular man, and I talk for display,
But whistle, and I'll come to you, Lord Grey.

It's a terrible bore when the Radicals bring
Addresses, Petitions, and that sort of thing;
But a shake of the head, and a bend of the knee,
Is all they will get, if they bring them to me.

Then whistle, and I'll come to you, Lord Grey;
Whistle, and I'll come to you, Lord Grey;
Just wait till I've sent Mr. Wakley away,
Then whistle, and I'll come to you, Lord Grey.

222

Though vanished and lost are the praises you won,
Though I see you abused in the Times and the Sun,
Though they laugh, my dear lord, at your Family Tree,
These things are of little importance to me.

So whistle, and I'll come to you, Lord Grey;
Whistle, and I'll come to you, Lord Grey;
As long as you've places, as long as you've pay,
Oh whistle, and I'll come to you, Lord Grey!

223

XXXII. THE ADIEUS OF WESTMINSTER.

When first you came courting, John Cam, John Cam,
When first you came courting, John Cam,

224

You came with Old Glory,
Who hated a Tory
As much as a Hebrew hates ham, ham,
As much as a Hebrew hates ham.

Oh, then you were charming, John Cam, John Cam,
Oh, then you were charming, John Cam;
As noisy and merry
As Charley and Sherry,
And almost as wise as Sir Sam, Sam,
And almost as wise as Sir Sam.

Fine presents you brought me, John Cam, John Cam,
Fine presents you brought me, John Cam;
A score of good reasons
For tumults and treasons,
Imported de chez Nôtre Dame, Dame,
Imported de chez Nôtre Dame.

You prated and plotted, John Cam, John Cam,
You prated and plotted, John Cam;
And at clubs played the knave,
Till Rogers looked grave,
And gave you the title of Pam, Pam,
And gave you the title of Pam.

225

How oft on my hustings, John Cam, John Cam,
How oft on my hustings, John Cam,
You preached Revolution
With grand elocution,
Which maddened me just like a dram, dram,
Which maddened me just like a dram.

And that was your triumph, John Cam, John Cam,
And that was your triumph, John Cam;
When I kicked up a row,
You made a low bow,
Which in Turkey they call a salaam,—laam,
Which in Turkey they call a salaam.

You smiled approbation, John Cam, John Cam,
You smiled approbation, John Cam,
When I cudgelled their backs well
Who voted for Maxwell,
And flung filthy turnips at Lamb, Lamb,
And flung filthy turnips at Lamb.

And great were your praises, John Cam, John Cam,
And great were your praises, John Cam;
And the trumpet of fame
Blew Hobhouse's name
As far as Seringapatam,—tam,
As far as Seringapatam.

226

Ah! why did you ever, John Cam, John Cam,
Ah! why did you ever, John Cam,
Get into disgrace,
By taking a place,
And proving your principles sham, sham,
And proving your principles sham?

Go back to your cronies, John Cam, John Cam,
Go back to your cronies, John Cam;
To Althorp, so funny
In matters of money,
And Thomson, who tattles of tram, tram,
And Thomson, who tattles of tram.

To Grant, the religious, John Cam, John Cam,
To Grant, the religious, John Cam,
Whose soul it annoys,
That the little black boys
Should work for their cocoa and yam, yam,
Should work for their cocoa and yam;

To Russell the rhymer, John Cam, John Cam,
To Russell the rhymer, John Cam;
To Graham, who stutters
Of frigates and cutters,
And Campbell the Prince of Qui Tam, Tam,
And Campbell the Prince of Qui Tam.

227

We're parted for ever, John Cam, John Cam,
We're parted for ever, John Cam;
You can't think—oh heavens!
With tall Colonel Evans—
You can't think how happy I am, am,
You can't think how happy I am!

228

XXXIII. THIRTY-TWO AND THIRTY-THREE.

“Nous avons changé tout cela.”—Molière.

229

I often think it's very strange
That people are so very slow
In finding out how all things change
Which mortals think, or feel, or know.
What fools have done, they still will do;
What fools have been, they still will be;
As if the world of thirty-two
Had been the world of thirty-three.

When wise Lord Milton fiercely screamed
“No taxes till the Bill is law,”
To all the Whigs Lord Milton seemed
The noblest lord they ever saw:
At Michaelmas, if I and you
Should plead, my friends, Lord Milton's plea,
As he was puffed in thirty-two
We sha'n't be puffed in thirty-three.

Where patriots met a year ago
To wave their hats, and strain their throats,
Lord Althorp took his pen, you know,
And wrote them vastly civil notes;
But bless us, if a chosen few
Are found admiring Lee and Mee,
They feel the thanks of thirty-two
Are turned to thumps in thirty-three.

230

Of old, when long petitions came
From Tom and Dick, who brew and bake,
We used to hear the Press proclaim
That all the nation was awake.
If Dick and Tom, who bake and brew,
To-day petition to be free,
“The nation” roared in thirty-two,
It's just “the mob” in thirty-three.

Our Pyms and Hampdens made their bow
To millions, or to myriads, then;
But Lord! they only babble now
To half-a-score of drunken men.
Then, nothing into numbers grew;
Now, numbers into nothing flee;
For one was ten in thirty-two,
And ten are one in thirty-three.

What fairy with her liquid song—
What sorcerer with his mystic spell
Turns wrong to right, and right to wrong,
And Hell to Heaven, and Heaven to Hell?
Brougham says—and what Brougham says, is true—
“Don't marvel at the things you see;
For we were Whigs in thirty-two,
And we are Whigs in thirty-three!”

231

XXXIV. THE WASHING OF THE BLACKAMOOR.

“Vivant qui nigra in candida vertunt.”—Juv.

There was a little man,
And he had a little plan
To set the West Indies all right, O;

232

And quoth he, “The House I'll teach
In a pretty little speech,
How to wash the Blackamoor white, O.”

There was a House wherein
Were Fielden, Faithfull, Finn,
And they listened with infinite delight, O,
When in Biblical quotation
He breathed his expectation
Of washing the Blackamoor white, O.

There was a grave philosopher
Who vowed the plan to toss over,
Which seemed all his visions to blight, O;
Fowell Buxton was his name,
And he muttered “Fie for shame!
This won't wash the Blackamoor white, O.”

There was Lushington, the Doctor,
That very learned Proctor
Who in speaking spits fire and spite, O;
He at this was discontented,
And to nothing less assented
Than washing the Blackamoor white, O.

233

There was a youthful Tully,
Determined not to sully
His laurels so green and so bright, O;
And he sighed, “With heartfelt sorrow
I must leave my place to-morrow,
If you won't wash the Blackamoor white, O.”

There was a lord, sad-hearted
Since from office he departed,
And he rose in a melancholy plight, O,
To say that he had rather
Go himself and teach his father
How to wash the Blackamoor white, O.

There was a band which marched,
Four hundred, stiff and starched,
To Downing Street, to fight the good fight, O;
Saints, sinners, all came forth,
From the south and from the north,
All to wash the Blackamoor white, O.

There was a private room
Where they laboured to illume
Dark councils with sparks of new light, O;
And stunned the Administration
With excommunication,
If it wouldn't wash the Blackamoor white, O.

234

There was a mortgage deed,
As fair a thing to read
As ever a lawyer could write, O;
But the parchment, people say,
Lighted fires for Brougham and Grey,
While they washed the Blackamoor white, O.

There was a merchant ship
Returning from a trip,
And her owner was sad at the sight, O;
Despairing of Barbadoes,
For rum and muscovadoes,
After washing the Blackamoor white, O.

There was a hungry nation,
Which heard with much vexation
That her ministers meant, if they might, O,
To tack to that long debt of hers
The price of Stanley's metaphors,
And of washing the Blackamoor white, O.

235

XXXV. MR. LITTLETON'S FRIENDSHIP.

“He proceeded to explain the motives which had led him most reluctantly to accept office; it was solely on public grounds, and to relieve the Ministry from the embarrassment in which they were then placed.” Report of Mr. Littleton's Speech.

Oh yes, the gentleman has place,
The gentleman has pay;
His worth has found its proper grace
With Althorp, Brougham, and Grey;

236

But don't suspect the patriot cares
For any private ends;
For—hear him—hear him—he declares
It's all to serve his friends.

Pert Kennedy looks wondrous blue;
Spring Rice detests a mob;
There's nobody disposed to do
This pretty Irish job:
O'er all the Whigs in Downing Street,
A sudden fate impends;
Our member has a nice snug seat,
Why mayn't he serve his friends?

Alas, it is a weary toil
To find a proper man
To break a lance with Doctor Doyle,
To change a cuff with Dan!
A luckless life the man will lead
Whom Grey to Dublin sends!
He would refuse—he would indeed—
Except to serve his friends.

You see, in country and in town—
I own it, if I must—
They're tearing Althorp's picture down,
And breaking Russell's bust;

237

When far and near there's hardly one
Who likes them or defends,
How kind of Mr. Littleton
To go and serve his friends!

We want the good to come to pass
They promised us last year;
We want to see through cheaper glass,
To swallow cheaper beer.
But never mind, our idle whim
Our member's taste offends;
What are our little wants to him?
He wants to serve his friends.

Some day, no doubt, they'll pay the debt
Which they're incurring now;
Some day he'll wear a coronet
Upon his lordly brow;
Though Radicals and Tories sneer,
The country comprehends
That whenso'er he's made a Peer,
'Twill be—to serve his friends.

238

XXXVI. THE REMONSTRANCE.

239

“He added, in agitated but emphatic tones, ‘Mr. Attwood, I have not deserved this from you!’”—See Mr. Attwood's account of the Skirmish at Gateshead.

Mr. Attwood—we're going to dinner;
Mr. Attwood—the time, and the place!
Mr. Attwood—as I am a sinner,
The thing is too long for a grace.
Ten columns! it's out of the question;
Go out, Mr. Attwood, pray do;
You'll ruin his lordship's digestion!
He has not deserved it of you!

The voice of the people, Heaven bless it,
Is sweet to us all, as you know;
But, really sometimes, we confess it,
It's terribly mal-à-propos:
To-morrow, no doubt, he'll be able
To talk with you, many or few;
But just when the turtle's on table—
He has not deserved it of you.

You see there are gentlemen present
Who have come to our party from far;
Consider—it's vastly unpleasant—
Consider how hungry they are!
From Newport and Hull they have posted,
With speeches, and appetites too;
They came to be toasted, not roasted—
He has not deserved it of you!

240

Last year, when your orators spouted,
They spouted in rapture his fame;
Last year, when your multitudes shouted,
They shouted in riot his name;
Last year you came up with caresses;
Last year you were licking his shoe;
Away with your ill-bred addresses!
He has not deserved it of you!

And surely you'll listen to reason!
Who is it you come to put down?
The noblest of traders in treason,
The first of the foes of the Crown;
The pilot who sits in the steerage
With Faithfulls and Finns for his crew;
His lordship—the Hunt of the Peerage—
He has not deserved it of you!

Oh never! Lord Durham has others
To censure, to scorn, to condemn;
But you, his dear friends and sworn brothers,
Should never take service with them.
The good may despise and detest him,
The honest, the loyal, the true;
But why should the traitors molest him?
He has not deserved it of you!

241

XXXVII. THE RUSSELL MELODIES.

NO. I.

OH SNATCHED AWAY IN THY FIRST QUARTER.

“We have often been reproached for the unkindness of our allusions to Lord John Russell's poetical works. We confess we do think Don Carlos the worst tragedy extant, and we never found anybody of a different opinion, except one sallow gentleman who writes in the Edinburgh Review, and visits occasionally at Holland House. But we readily admit that many of his lordship's unpublished jeux d'esprit and vers de société possess merit; and we are willing to make amends to the noble lord by presenting a few of them to the public. The affectionate pathos of the following stanzas, which were addressed to the late member for Westminster, on his retiring from place and parliament, has made them very popular in fashionable circles.”

Oh snatched away in thy first quarter,
We have for thee nor star nor garter;
But Grey and Brougham make jests about
Thy taking in and turning out,
And call thee, in the Cabinet, their Martyr.

And in the Borough, where our game
Is all at sixes and at sevens,
De Vear, deep fellow, sings thy fame,
And swears he'll move the earth, the heavens!
As if there were a chance with Colonel Evans!

243

Away! We know we've lost our Hobby;
We know close seats exist no longer;
Will this console us in the lobby,
Or make Wood's list one vote the stronger?
And thou—who laughest at my vapours—
Thyself art packing up thy papers!

Note by Lord John Russell.—I am indebted for the idea of these stanzas to one of the Hebrew Melodies. I mention it that the reader may see my melody is as much superior to Byron's, as my play was to Schiller's.

“Oh snatched away in Beauty's bloom,” etc.

Note by Mr. Joseph Hume.—Sir John appears to have held the Irish Secretaryship for thirty-three days. The salary of the office being £5,500 per annum, the baronet will be found to have earned £197 5s. 4½d —errors excepted.

Note by Lord Althorp.—This is a mistake. In many parts of the country, I must candidly confess, the late Act rendered game scarce. But in Westminster I may venture to assure my noble friend it can have done little harm, because, in point of fact, for many years there has been in Westminster no game at all. But His Majesty's Government will not oppose the appointment of a committee to inquire into the subject.

Note by Sir Francis Burdett.—It is no mistake at all.

Note by dear De Vear.—I never sing.

Note by ditto.—I never swear.

Note by the Duke of Bedford and Earl Fitz William.—Pooh!

Note by Earl Durham.—This apostrophe is addressed to me. The papers alluded to are the rough drafts of the Clauses of the Reform Bill, the preparation of which was entrusted to me by my noble father-in-law.

Note by Mr. Joseph Hume.—I suspect that Lord Durham's share in the Reform Bill will turn out a monte mus.

244

XXXVIII. THE RUSSELL MELODIES.

NO. II.

ODE ON THE PASSING OF THE REFORM BILL.

“We are happy to learn that our commencement of this series of papers has delighted, in no ordinary degree, the friends of the noble poet, to whose effusions we thus give a circulation which his own amiable diffidence would have denied them. “Oh snatched away,” has already been set to music by a distinguished amateur composer; and a certain secretary of State, residing not twenty miles from Carlton Gardens, has been heard to say that the Russell Melodies deserve a second reading much better than the Russell Bills. Encouraged by these circumstances, we present to our readers a second selection from the MSS. entrusted to us, a selection made, of course, in compliment to the not unnatural preference of the illustrious author, since it cannot be expected that we should sympathize in the exultation he expresses upon the event which is his theme.”

'Tis done! I have finished my monument now;
What tidings of transport for Sutton and Bernal!
Take the brass—all the brass—of the chancellor's brow,
You won't build a monument half so eternal.

'Tis as tall as a pyramid—wonderful edifice—
Though it threatens the stars—(see the book of Belzoni);
'Tis as tall as Lord Grey, though that classical head of his
Brushes down a nice star, now and then, for a crony.

246

It shall last, for the weal and the strength of the nation,
Unharmed by the changes of destiny's weather;
No flight of the times shall impair its foundation,
While Hume and the tides go on moving together.

And me, its wise author, the world shall remember,
As long as a talkative mayor shall preside
At Guildhall, o'er the turtle and toasts, in November,
With a mute Lady Mayoress perched by his side.

Of me they shall say on the banks of the Tweed,
Of me they shall say on the banks of the Shannon,
“Lord John, whom we used to think little indeed,
But who grew a great man by the help of Dun cannon,

“To his praise be it told, was the first to bring over
A new and original French Constitution,

247

Importing the treasure from Calais to Dover
On board of His Majesty's ship Revolution.”

Oh crown me, Melpomene, nymph of sad numbers!
Though over my play, if you ever begin it,
You slumber as sound as the President slumbers
At the Board of Control, o'er an eloquent minute,

Yet crown me with laurel; to-night at Old Drury
You may look at a case like my own, if you will;
The play is but so-so; yet let me assure ye,
You'll find some magnificent things in the Bill!

Note by Lord John Russell.—As in my Don Carlos I imitated Schiller, and in my Reform Bill took a leaf from the Abbé Sièyes, I have, in the following stanzas, appropriated many ideas, without hesitation, from one of the Odes of old Horace. The Roman poet has been accused of vanity in the application of extravagant panegyric to his own works. If such an imputation is cast upon me, I answer briefly that, except by a poetical licence, I am not the author of the Reform Bill; it was framed by Lord Durham; Sir James Graham and Lord Duncannon were consulted by him on some important points. For my own part, I gave him advice upon nothing, except a trifling matter connected with the well-doing of the borough of Tavistock. I may venture to subjoin Horace's Ode, since, under the Reform Act, all country gentlemen understand Latin:—

“Exegi monumentum ære perennius,” etc.

Note by ------ Esq.—I was in the Fifth Form at Eton with the First Lord of Treasury. I remember his making a pun about an often-quoted line—Stellæ sponte sua jussæne vagentur et errent.—“The question don't admit of discussion,” said he; “the Stars would be good for nothing without the Orders!”

Note by a poor Author.—Horace did not live in the days of newspaper criticism, or he would not have been so bold as Lord John. A flight of the Times is a very serious thing.

Note by Lord Duncannon.—England will understand, sooner or later, how much she owes me. Ostensibly, indeed, I am content to be, like the chaste Diana, Silvarum potens, First Commissioner of Woods and Forests; but I am more than meets the eye; “no waiter, but a Knight Templar;” a Legislator in disguise—a Lycurgus under a domino. Lord Durham can explain this.

Note by the Quarterly Reviewer of Miss Burney's Memoirs.—We have found in the Registry of the Parish of Parnassus, that this “nymph,” the daughter of Thespis and Mnemosyne, was baptized b.c. 539; so that she was two thousand three hundred and seventy-two years old when this Ode was composed.

Note by one of the Commissioners of the Board of Control.—The Rt. Hon. Charles Grant is a psychological curiosity. He is the drowsiest philosopher of his own or of any day. He writes in his sleep, reads in his sleep, eats in his sleep, drinks in his sleep. He sleeps at the Board, he sleeps in the house, he sleeps at Court, and he sleeps in the Cabinet. He sleeps while you talk to him, and he sleeps while he talks to you. He is the seven sages and the seven sleepers in his own proper person.

248

XXXIX. THE RUSSELL MELODIES.

NO. III.

FLY NOT YET.

249

“We do not know by what negligence on our part it has happened that this interesting series has been so long discontinued. We were reminded of our error on Saturday by the circulation of the little effusion which we present to our readers to-day. It has been composed by the noble author on occasion of the expressed disposition of Lord Grey to escape from the fatigues of office; and we are assured that the strong pathes with which it has been sung to the noble Lord by the various members of his family who are qualified to take part in it, has produced a wonderfully tranquillizing effect upon the Premier's mind. We do not flatter the author of Don Carlos too much, when we express our conviction that the present stay of Earl Grey in office is attributable not more to the favour of his Sovereign, or the cordiality of his colleagues, than to the seductive harmony of the Russell Melodies, No. III.

“We omit the variorum notes. The little poem is sufficiently intelligible without them, and their insertion would trench too much upon our space. Selection is an invidious task; if we take one note, we are forced to take as many as are brought to us. The Chancellor of the Exchequer denies this; but we think him wrong.”

Fly not yet! We're all agreed
That office, like a noxious weed
Which nicer taste rejects, disdains,
Grows sweeter for its stings and stains
To Goderich, Grant and Co.
'Twas but that we might hold it fast,
The Bill, the glorious Bill, was passed,
For whose fourscore immortal clauses
The people gave three penny vases;
Oh stay! oh stay!
Whigs so often vainly long
For pay and place, that oh, 'twere wrong
So soon to let them go.

Fly not yet! The thief that stood
Of yore beneath the fatal wood
Now tried the rope, now paced the cart,
But seemed unwilling to depart
When the doomed hour was near;
And thus a Whig, much cuffed about,
Will often talk of “going out;”

250

Will hint he's done—will vow he'll do it,
But will not, till they drive him to it.
Oh stay! oh stay!
When did Premier ere bring in
So many of his kith and kin,
To serve their country here?

251

XL. THE RUSSELL MELODIES.

NO. IV.

ODE TO A NOBLE LORD.

“In the Ode which we select for the fourth number of the Russell Melodies, the noble author imitates the spirited remonstrance addressed by Horace to the Roman coquette Barine. Horace complains that the adoration which is still offered to the false flirt, in spite of her repeated perfidies and perjuries, makes him doubt the existence of a retributive Providence. We think the noble author, in many recent examples of popular profligacy, has good grounds for questioning the existence of any sense of justice or feeling of decency, in the minds of those by whom praise or blame is in our times awarded to political character.

“Lord Palmerston is utterly unable to inform us to what noble lord his friend's stanzas are addressed.”

If you, my dear lord, had been ever the worse
For the profligate things you have done;
If the title you bear were a scoff and a curse
To the scribes of the Times and the Sun,

252

Perhaps I might learn, in your sorrow and shame,
Whate'er the Rotunda might say,
To fancy consistency more than a name,
And truth a good thing in its way.

But you—when you've babbled your jests and your gibes
At all that you've lived by for years,
When you've shuddered at sinecures, shivered at bribes,
And shaken your head at the Peers,
Go back to your seat amid shouts of applause
In every possible tone,
And your principles seem to the friends of our cause
As pure, I suspect, as my own.

It's a glory for you to be racking your brains
In showing to Pease and to Pryme
That Englishmen used to wear infamous chains
In Pitt's and in Percival's time;
In proving of taxes and proving of trade
Whatever you used to deny,
And sneering at blunders by Castlereagh made
Since he cannot get up to reply.

Bright Venus, you know, my lord, laughs from above
At the sad things her votaries do;

253

And surely, the falsehoods we pardon in love
May be pardoned in politics too;
For the ribbands—the garters love maddens to touch,
Ambition as gracefully kneels,
And lovers don't long for their letters so much
As ministers long for their seals!

Hail, light of the House! The new Parliament men
Support you in all you have done;
The old, though they meant to be going at ten,
Say “Aye” to your motion at one;
The well-studied trope, which with Calvert succeeds,
As surely with Codrington thrives,
And the “Hear” is as loud from your Marshall of Leeds,
As it is from your Halse of St. Ives.

When you say “Mr. Speaker,” and stand on the floor,
And wave your rhetorical wrist,
Poor Ross in despair hurries down to the door,
And mournfully looks at his list;
At the sound of your voice, at the beam of your smile,
The Big Beggarman is aghast;
Such wisdom, such wit, he's afraid, will beguile
His Maurice and Morgan at last.

254

XLI. THE RUSSELL MELODIES.

NO. V.

“The Bill was not intended to destroy the legitimate influence of property.”—Speeches of Lord John Russell (passim).

Sir John to Dudley is gone away
With a confident tone, and a visage gay;
Sir John from Dudley is coming back,
With an altered tone, and a visage black;
The dolts at Dudley are very dense,
And deaf to “legitimate influence.”

255

How shall we manage their fault to mend?
The Earl Fitzwilliam is my friend;
Though Wetherell scold, though Croker scoff,
We'll send the knight in his chariot off;
At Malton none are known to fence
Against “legitimate influence.”

If Earl Fitzwilliam will not smile,
I have a colleague, Lord Carlisle;
He knows, I fancy, a thing or two
Of what the folk at Morpeth do;
They have a horror of pounds and pence,
But a taste for “legitimate influence.”

If Lord Carlisle will not be won,
I am his Grace of Bedford's son;
Our own ten-pounders in the West
Will be happy to see their learned guest;
Tavistock men are men of sense;
They love “legitimate influence.”

For true Reformers there will be
In Downing Street a jubilee,
When the champion proud of Freedom's cause
Shall come to manufacture laws,
Chosen—no matter how or whence—
M.P. for “legitimate influence.”

256

XLII. THE RUSSELL MELODIES.

NO. VI.

“The poem we present to our readers to-day, is one in which the noble author invites the First Lord of the Treasury to dinner, in a loose imitation of Horace's pretty Ode, ‘Œli, vetusto nobilis ab Lamo.’ “We have formerly illustrated his lordship's adaptations from the classics by quotations from the originals. Some of our fair readers have been angry with us for this; but their frowns would scarcely have moved us to substitute the clumsy English of Francis for the exquisite Latin of Horace, if a more reverend adviser had not supported their petition. The Bishop of Chichester assures us ‘he cannot be comfortable without a translation.’”

Illustrious Premier! noble Peer,
Whose family will live in story,

257

While yon Red Book from year to year
Immortalizes Whig and Tory,

(Since in that wondrous book to-day
We scarcely read of any others,
As touching power, or tasting pay,
But Earl Grey's sons, and Earl Grey's brothers),

Next spring—if any part is true
Of what that arch wag, Brougham, is croaking
In his dark Court, of me and you,
With malice that is quite provoking—

Next spring we must, alas! give o'er
Our pretty plans, our pleasant places;
And hide, upon Life's weedy shore,
Our most uncomfortable faces.

Let us be merry, ere our sin
By such rebuke is overtaken;

258

Bring Wood —to tell us, with a grin,
How vastly well we've saved our bacon;

The Grants shall join us, half alive;
Tired Melbourne shall tie up his knocker;
And dear dim Althorp shall contrive
To steal one afternoon from Cocker.

From Lamus,” ...

“From whom the illustrious race arose,” etc.

Croak not her boding note in vain.”

..... with weeds the shore.”

“Then pile the wood while yet you may.”

“Feast upon the fatted swine.”

“Give to your slaves one idle day”

259

XLIII. MAXIMS.

“Lord Auckland is understood to be appointed permanently on constitutional grounds.”—Globe, January 14th.

If a Tory is ever found out
In pocketing twenty pence,
The thing is a job, no doubt;
It admits of no defence:
If a Whig has the luck to secure
Some twenty thousand pounds,
It is all arranged, be sure,
On “Constitutional grounds.”

If a Tory dares distrust
The faith of our fiercest foe,

260

Suspicion is quite unjust,
And jealousy vastly low:
If a Whig with a bold blockade
Our ancient friend confounds,
It is done for the good of trade,
On “Constitutional grounds.”

If a Tory punishes crimes
In Kerry or in Clare,
The wisdom of the Times
Proclaims it quite unfair:
If a Whig with a troop of horse
The Murphys and Macs astounds,
He cuts and thrusts, of course,
On “Constitutional grounds.”

If a Tory gives a place
To a nephew, or a son,
Good lack! a thing so base
Was never, never done!
If a Whig with his countless kin
The nation's purse surrounds,
They slip their fingers in
On “Constitutional grounds.”

Then take, my lord, oh take
The gift the Greys provide,

261

For the Constitution's sake,
And for no end beside;
And think, on quarter-day,
Of the friend who thus expounds
The rights of place and pay,
On “Constitutional grounds.”

262

XLIV. THE SONG OF THE NURSE.

EXTRACTED FROM THE FORTHCOMING EDITION OF “GAMMER GURTON'S GARLAND.”

Hush, my baby! if you don't,
I shall find a way to treat you:
Hush, my baby! if you won't,
Gaffer Grey shall come and eat you!
Lullaby! do not cry!
Gaffer Grey is coming by!

263

Gaffer Grey has jaws, they say,
Like a ramping roaring lion;
Masticating every day
Whatsoe'er he casts his eye on.
Lullaby! etc.

Greedily he swallows up
All his friends can buy or borrow;
Bolts to-day a little cup,
Gulps a long address to-morrow.
Lullaby! etc.

Oh the dainties he has got
In his terrible refectory!
Here a colonelcy, all hot,
There a nicely roasted rectory.
Lullaby! etc.

Though its perfume, he protests,
Is of sulphur and of nitre,
He discusses and digests
Now and then, a Bishop's mitre.
Lullaby! etc.

Whensoe'er he wags his lip
Just to chat, or just to chatter,

264

Down a score of trifles slip,
No man caring for the matter.
Lullaby! etc.

Clerkships, lordships, there they are;
Half a hundred every quarter;
Now a ribbon, now a star,
Here a cross, and there a garter.
Lullaby! etc.

Pages at the palace say
They have seen him—sad disaster!
Nibbling all the gems away
From the sceptre of his master.
Lullaby! etc.

When good people stop and stare,
Saying to themselves, “Good gracious!
Did we e'er—oh no, we ne'er
Saw a creature so voracious!”
(Lullaby! etc.)

Mid the murmurs of the town,
On the Times the monster gazes;
And, to wash his supper down,
Swallows half a pipe of praises.
Lullaby! etc.

265

Hush, my baby! if you don't,
I shall find a way to treat you:
Hush, my baby! if you won't,
Gaffer Grey shall come and eat you!
Lullaby! do not cry!
Gaffer Grey is coming by!

266

XLV. THE STATE OF THE NATION.

“We are now a trampled nation.”—Times.

We have been some years reforming,
Chattering, cheering, stamping, storming;
Cutting bludgeons from the hedges,
Asking for all sorts of pledges;
Breaking heads, and breaking glasses,
Calling people knaves and asses;

267

After all our agitation,
We are now a “trampled nation”!

Mr. Croker's thrusts are parried,
Schedules A and B are carried;
Vain is Wetherell's long alarum,
There is no reprieve for Sarum;
All the money in our pockets
Went to purchase squibs and rockets;
Oh, what foolish exultation!
We are still “a trampled nation”!

Buckingham is quite a Tully,
Solon was a fool to Gully;
Pryme's a lecturer, caught at college,
Pease, a Quaker, full of knowledge;
Fielden is extremely clever,
Finn can talk, and talk for ever:
What a glorious constellation!
Yet we are “a trampled nation.”

We have got Lord Grey to ease us
Of the taxes that displease us;
We have got, besides, some dozens
Of his lordship's sons and cousins:

268

They are blest with places, pensions,
And the very best intentions;
It's against their inclination
That we are “a trampled nation.”

We have got the Times adorning
Facts with figures every morning;
Now denouncing right and reason,
Now defending guilt and treason;
Raving, ranting, blustering, blundering,
Pro and con alternate thundering;
It has wondrous circulation;
Why are we “a trampled nation”?

269

XLVI. A MEMBER'S MUSINGS.

“Lord Althorp made a reply, but, as is almost invariably the case, the noble lord was perfectly inaudible in the gallery.”

“The reply of the noble lord was again perfectly inaudible to any one in the gallery”

—House of Commons Report, Tuesday, March 11th.

“Order, order!”—“Bar, bar!”—“Door, door!”
Such are the cries as he stands on the floor,
Waving his hand for a little while,
And wreathing his lip in a gentle smile:
We stoop our head, we strain our ear;
Nobody hears him;—“Hear, hear, hear!”

What is he talking of?—figures or facts?
Liberal principles?—Algerine acts?
The rise of the unions, or of stocks?
The weight of the debt, or the last prize ox?

270

Crops or cholera?—Jews or beer?
All of them!—none of them!—“Hear, hear, hear!”

Quick is O'Connell in debate;
Cunning is Hume to calculate;
But Hume and O'Connell their way will miss,
Trying to answer a speech like this!
“When it's a proper time to cheer,
Wake me, dear Ellice!”—“Hear, hear, hear!”

There is a lady in a play,
Who speaks, though she does nothing say;
Fortune has brought us a lord in her freaks,
Who just says nothing, though he speaks.
What in the papers will appear?
Only “Lord Althorp,” and “Hear, hear, hear!”

271

XLVII. COUNSELS OF A FATHER TO HIS SON.

“Down, Derry Down!'—Old Song.

When I at last shall sleep in peace,
When life's consumption shall be o'er,
When I shall fill that payless place
Where none shall plot or plunder more
Remember on what wings I soared
To infamy's unfading crown,
How I became a noble lord,
And you became the Dean of Down.

272

Professing disregard of self,
I won the ermine of a Peer;
Avowing carelessness of pelf,
I earned some thousand pounds a year;
I caught the favours of the Court,
And seemed as honest as a clown;
And though I fathered a “Report,”
I fathered, too, the Dean of Down.

By turns with every party leagued,
As each by turns might rise or fall,
I blustered, bullied, schemed, intrigued,
Was loved by none, was used by all;
Placeman and patriot, both for pay,
I flinched not from the general frown—
I am the Chancellor to-day,
And you to-day the Dean of Down.

If I on this world's busy stage
Had worshipped honour, followed truth,
Less praise would gild my hoary age,
Less hope would greet your sanguine youth.
If blameless I my gown had worn,
I still might wear my plain stuff gown;
If I had shrunk from public scorn,
You would not be the Dean of Down.

273

Go forth and do as I have done,
Like glory on your pathway shine;
Mine be your principles, my son,
And be your profits more than mine;
Haste, worthy of your sire's embrace,
To emulate your sire's renown;
Be false and factious, bold and base,
And make your son the Dean of Down!

274

XLVIII. THE WHISPERS OF THE RUE RIVOLI.

“He points to Lord Durham in the salons, and whispers, ‘That is the man!’”—Morning Post.

Who will come to the place some day—
The pleasant place, where dear Lord Grey
Just now so tenderly feeds some dozens
Of patriot sons and patriot cousins?
Who from the national purse will draw
All that is left by his father-in-law?
Who will end what Grey began?
That is the man! That is the man!

Who in due time will make of me,
Though in the city I may be

275

“Very discreditably known,”
Because of my share in a certain loan,
Who in due time will make me yet
A member of the Cabinet,
Ruling with him his dark divan?
That is the man! That is the man!

Who, though I ought with Hume and Co.
To have shrunk into privacy long ago,
Will bring me the book, over whose long leaves
Honest Lord Althorp growls and grieves,
The ledger of the bankrupt state,
That I may carefully calculate
And glean from the ruin all I can?
That is the man! That is the man!

Who will saunter to Court, and sing
A pretty song to our Lord the King,
Of peers in treason foul arrayed,
Of wicked plots by bishops laid,
Of loyalty spouting from Radical Clubs,
Of piety driven to preach from tubs?
Who will Royalty's wits trepan?
That is the man! That is the man!

Who by and by, when a maiden Queen
Shall on our tottering throne be seen,

276

All too weak to stem the storm
Which we philosophers call “Reform”—
Who will condescend to hold
Robe of state and sceptre of gold,
Leaving her Majesty frock and fan?
That is the man! That is the man!

Who will abolish the mitre and crown,
And pull the Church and the Palace down?
Who will burn, at the public charge,
The Bible and Prayer-book and statutes at large?
Who will annul and annihilate quite
All the old maxims of wrong and right,
And govern the world on a nice new plan?
That is the man! That is the man!

277

XLIX. THE FALSE REPORT.

“We must condole with the Post. Lord Palmerston has not resigned.' Globe, May 16th, 1834.

There's no foundation for the news,
Whate'er the sanguine Post may say;
England has commerce yet to lose,
And friendships yet to cast away.
Dead are her laurels, dim her fame;
But destiny has yet behind
A darker doom, a fouler shame;
Lord Palmerston has not resigned!

What happy tidings these must be
For all who hate our name and race!

278

King Leopold is full of glee,
Don Pedro wears a cheerful face;
And yon old man with ringlets white,
The lame, who loves to lead the blind,
Is merry o'er his cards to-night;
Lord Palmerston has not resigned!

The scornful look, the angry tone,
Are vain in our degenerate days;
Resigned? Oh no! high hearts alone
Can rightly value blame or praise.
A nation's sneer, a nation's frown,
Might awe, might fire, a noble mind;
Pitt would have flung his office down!—
Lord Palmerston has not resigned.

279

L. A FAMILIAR EPISTLE.

FROM DUDLEY TO EDINBURGH.

“Look, here comes a lover of mine, and a lover of hers.”—As You Like It.

Sir John is a terrible man,
He is born pretty towns to beguile;
Beware—oh beware—if you can,
Of the magic that lurks in his smile:
Though soft his entreaties may be,
I've heard him as tenderly sue:
For he used to come courting to me,
As now he goes courting to you.

280

A tricolor banner he bore
To render his principles plain;
A tricolor ribbon he wore;
He'll probably wear it again.
With his conduct, I quickly could see,
His colours had little to do;
But oh! they were lovely to me,
And oh! they'll be lovely to you.

He taught me, the villain, to hope,
Such blessings as eye never saw;
Cheap raiment, cheap victuals, cheap soap,
Cheap learning, cheap churches, cheap law.
You'd have thought that he spoke for a fee,
So moving his eloquence grew;
The arts that could fascinate me—
Oh will they not fascinate you?

He promised the people his aid,
He gave it to Althorp and Grey;
A Radical here while he stayed,
A Whig when he trotted away.
He swore that the Press should be free,
And straight an indictment he drew;
A sad disappointment to me,
A sad disappointment to you!

281

But take him; a seat must be had
For Mr. Attorney, no doubt:
Do take him; Lord Althorp is sad
While his learned adviser is out.
Since “off with the old love” is he,
It's time to be “on with the new;”
Detected, rejected by me,
Pray take him—I leave him to you!

282

LI. COLLOQUIES OF THE CANONGATE.

“Rem populi tractas.”—Pers.

Whence do you come, Sir knight, Sir knight,
So gloomy and glum, Sir knight, Sir knight?
“From Dudley, where stories
Invented by Tories
Have ruined my character quite, quite,
Have ruined my character quite.”

Who bade you appear, Sir knight, Sir knight,
To dazzle us here, Sir knight, Sir knight?

283

“Lord Althorp, in trouble
That Pepys, my double,
Is not very ready to fight, fight,
Is not very ready to fight.”

What have you got, Sir knight, Sir knight,
To bother the Scot, Sir knight, Sir knight?
“A bow and a bag
And a tricolor flag
And speeches well sprinkled with spite, spite,
And speeches well sprinkled with spite.”

What have you done, Sir knight, Sir knight,
About the True Sun, Sir knight, Sir knight?
“I've shown that with reason
A Lord may talk treason
Which a Commoner ought not to write, write,
Which a Commoner ought not to write.”

What shall we see, Sir knight, Sir knight,
If we make you M.P., Sir knight, Sir knight?
“You'll see me depart
With my hand on my heart,
Very grateful and very polite,—lite,
Very grateful and very polite.”

284

How will you cure, Sir knight, Sir knight,
The ills we endure, Sir knight, Sir knight?
“I've just got a notion
Of making a motion
That black shall in future be white, white,
That black shall in future be white.”

285

LII. THE LATE RESIGNATIONS.

“Vivant Arturius illic
Et Catulus.”
—Juv.

'Twas time for this; too long, too long,
In sad communion of disgrace,
The right have banded with the wrong,
The pure have herded with the base,

286

Sense should not be to Quackery tied,
Nor Piety be linked with Cant,
Nor Graham sit by Thomson's side,
Nor Stanley share the shame of Grant.

'Twas time for this; they are not fit
To flatter Finn, conciliate Grote,
To shake their sides at Whalley's wit
And strain their voice for Gully's vote;
To covet Burdett's ready smiles,
To credit oaths by Harvey sworn,
And soothe with diplomatic wiles
The burly beggar's hate and scorn.

'Twas time for this; when general gloom
Enwraps whate'er we deem divine,
When madness speaks the common doom
Of crown and mitre, throne and shrine,
'Twas time to leave yon shameful seat
To men of fitting heart and head;
The drum should be by Ellice beat;
The march should be by Durham led!

288

LIII. THE SONG OF THE BELLS.

“Turn again, Whittington.'

Oh, whither does your Lordship run
In such a fume and fret?
Your task is only just begun,
We cannot spare you yet:
You know there's nothing half so sweet
As power, and place, and pay;
You can't be tired of Downing Street;
Oh, turn again, Lord Grey.

And you will have your Peers, no doubt,
To serve you, thick and thin;

289

To wait upon your going out
And on your coming in;
And fools and flatterers, slaves and thieves,
Will play a pretty play
With little balls and strawberry leaves;
So turn again, Lord Grey.

And you'll be lauded in the Globe,
And laurelled in the Times;
And painted in a Roman robe,
And sung in scurvy rhymes:
The spouting-clubs will play their pranks
To make their master gay;
They'll smother you with votes of thanks—
Quick, turn again, Lord Grey.

And Hume and Harvey will declare
You speak their very tone;
And Duncombe will devoutly swear
Your heart is like his own:
For you will noisy Denman bawl
And empty Waithman bray;
And you will learn to love them all—
There, turn again, Lord Grey.

University of Virginia Library

II. Part II.

I. THE NEW ORDER OF THINGS.