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Lumb'ring, and tugging up the hill
Of modern metaphysics,-Mill,
A heavy proser, dull and futile, he
Th' eternal question puts, “ Quid utile ?”-
And though no sailor born or bred,
Gramercy ! how he heaves the lead !
And then, the northern drone, M.Culloch,
Whose system classes man with bullock,-
That system, (Ethics thrive apace !)
A bull !-perks forth his lacquer'd face.
Each erring in a different school,
How strange the contest, fool with fool!
In science various ways they pull,
Yet still, unanimously dull !

Superlatively queer the cant
Of long-ear'd Puritans that rant,
Of owl-ey'd critics hypercritical,
Of quacks, poetical, political,
Of craniologists, and all
From Spurzheim, down to Dr. Gall;
Or deeper, ay, and deeper still,
From Dr. Gall, to Dan Deville !*
But not, the Calvinistic cant

* A learned Craniologist, whose science consists in ringing the changes on (in his own ludicrous phraseology) “ Wents, walwes, and whackcuhums !"

Of long-ear'd Puritans that rant ;
The cant of critics hypercritical,
Of quacks, poetical, political,
Of craniologists, and all
From Spurzheim, down to Dr. Gall;
Or deeper, ay, and deeper still,
From Dr. Gall, to Dan Deville !
Is half so comical, in sooth,
As that queer cant—the cant of Truth,
Which dull philosophers grope out
Of darkness, apathy, and doubt!
Enough for me, the sacred

page
(My guide in youth, my hope in age,)
More than Philosophy + hath giv'n,
Life, immortality, and heav'n!
A joy that knows nor guilt, nor fear,
A balm for sorrow's bitt'rest tear,
A truth by Sages handed down,
Who bears the cross shall win the crown.

Mark yon fribbled form of fungus,
How the deuce came she among us?
Quite a negative, I'm told,
Neither

very young, nor old, Dull nor witty, hot nor cold !

+ “ I am positive I have a soul; nor can all the books with which Materialists have pestered the world, ever persuade me to the contrary,”-Sterne.

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Wheresoe'er she turns her

eyes,
Cupid claps his wings, and flies;
Venus, and her turtles too,
Scream, and Hymen's torch burns blue !.

Woe,” she croaks,“ to man's increase,
Quick let propagation cease ;
Malthus' system shall be tried,
And nought but pence be multiplied."
Were all the world like thee and him,
A quean so scowling, and so grim,
A cynic of so queer a genus,
The merry bells had ne'er (between us,)
Rang “ Consummatum est,” my Venus !

FeA Di

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The actor mounts his tragic stole,
And makes Macbeth exceeding droll;
Till, in his periwig combustion,
Will. Shakespeare sounds like Irish fustian,
In which Macready tears a cat,
And Shiel, the patriot, writes so pat;*
A sort of linsey-woolsey tyrant,
Between low comedy, and high rant.
The monkey-mimic makes essay,
And plays Tom Fool a diff'rent way;
When all the

company

that

pass,

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* Alas! the old English game-cock is degenerated into the modern French capon-show without mettle, and battles without spurs !

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Are seen reflected in his glass,
With air and attitude absurd,
Suiting the action to the word !
The craniologist, the sconces
Feeling alike, of wits and dunces,
A doughty argument he thumps,
Discoursing learnedly on bumps.
Pardieu ! if we believe the caitiff,
Mine host has got the bump amative!
Which Mrs. Brush, who loves phrenology,
Says, stands in need of no apology!
But see, yon group of merry faces ;
Sure Punch the genius of the place is;
Loud laughter peals, what makes the fun stir ? :
"Tis Mr. Merryman, the punster.

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To wake the soul with hum'rous strokes,
To crack the sides of honest folks,
To banish care, dispel ennui,
With social merriment and glee,
For this, did Momus, muse of fun,
Ordain that jackanapes, a pun!
Yet Wit, like folks in higher station,
Will sometimes flout this poor relation,
And, more provoking still, pretend
To treat it as an humble friend-
As some proud Fair, neat, trimly dress'd

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All in her brilliants and her best,
To heighten beauty's magic pow'r,
Adorns it with the simplest flow'r;
So Wit, from Pun will condescend
To borro

grace, as well as lend
The Dean, that humourist Cervantic,
One fav’rite had 'twas Pun, the antic!
The which he loved passing well,
His motto, “ Vive la Bagatelle !".

In little knots the Party split is,
Frisking, and chatt'ring in committees :
What fidget, fuss, and much ado,
How
pass the pronouns,

I and You!
Yet here, behold a nation's hopes ;
See future Miltons, Drydens, Popes!
For these, alas ! in sooth to say,
Have shone, exhal'd, and pass'd away.
Transcending far the ancient school,
Hail, Pocock, Planchè, Peake, and Poole !
All hail, Paul Clifford ! mightier Bulwer,
To whom e'en Fielding, Smollett, dull were !
As thou, supreme in verse and prose art,
Lo, Parry outshines Haydn, Mozart !
The treasur'd Lore of ages past,
Grown out of date, is crumbling fast;
Religion, Morals, Party, Sect,

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