My reason's this:- the Priests of Isis,
When forth they march'd in long array,
Employ'd, 'mong other grave devices,
A Sacred Ass to lead the way; '
And still the antiquarian traces
'Mong Irish Lords this Pagan plan,
For still, in all religious cases,
They put Lord R-d-n in the van.

A CURIOUS FACT.

THE present Lord K-ny-n (the Peer who writes letters,

For which the waste-paper folks much are his debtors)

Hath one little oddity, well worth reciting,
Which puzzleth observers, even more than his
writing.

Whenever Lord K-ny-n doth chance to behold
A cold Apple-pie-mind, the pie must be cold—
His Lordship looks solemn (few people know why),
And he makes a low bow to the said apple-pie.
This idolatrous act, in so "vital" a Peer,
Is, by most serious Protestants, thought rather

queer

Pie-worship, they hold, coming under the head Vide Crustium, chap. iv.) of the Worship of Bread.

Some think 'tis a tribute, as author, he owes
For the service that pie-crust hath done to his
prose;

The only good things in his pages, they swear,
Being those that the pastry-cook sometimes puts
there.
[vey'd,
Others say, 'tis a homage, through pie-crust con-
To our Glorious Deliverer's much-honour'd shade;
As that Protestant Hero (or Saint, if you please)
Was as fond of cold pie as he was of green peas,*
And 'tis solely in loyal remembrance of that,
My Lord K-ny-n to apple-pie takes off his hat.
While others account for this kind salutation
By what Tony Lumpkin calls" concatenation; "-
A certain good-will that, from sympathy's ties,
"Twixt old Apple-women and Orange-men lies.
But 'tis needless to add, these are all vague sur-
mises,

For thus, we're assur'd, the whole matter arises:
Lord K--ny-n's respected old father (like many
Respected old fathers) was fond of a penny;
And lov'd so to save3, that-there's not the least
question-

His death was brought on by a bad indigestion,

4 See the anecdote, which the Duchess of Marlborough relates in her Memoirs, of this polite hero appropriating to himself one day, at dinner, a whole dish of green peas-the first of the seasonwhile the poor Princess Anne, who was then in a longing condition, sat by, vainly entreating, with her eyes, for a share.

5 The same prudent propensity characterises his descendant, who

Most of your readers are, no doubt, acquainted with the anecdote told of a certain, not over-wise, judge, who, when in the act of delivering a charge in some country court-house, was interrupted by the braying of an ass at the door. "What noise is that?" asked the angry judge. "Only an extraordinary echo there is in court, my Lord," answered one of the counsel.

As there are a number of such "extraordinary echoes" abroad just now, you will not, perhaps, be unwilling, Mr. Editor, to receive the following few lines suggested by them.

There are echoes that bore us, like Blues, With the latest smart mot they have heard; There are echoes, extremely like shrews, Letting nobody have the last word.

In the bogs of old Paddy-land, too,

Certain "talented" echoes there dwell, Who, on being ask'd, "How do you do?" Politely reply, "Pretty well."

But why should I talk any more

Of such old-fashion'd echoes as these, When Britain has new ones in store,

That transcend them by many degrees?

And while, of most echoes the sound
On our ear by reflection doth fall,
These Brunswickers pass the bray round,
Without any reflection at all.

Oh Scott, were I gifted like you,

Who can name all the echoes there are From Benvoirlich to bold Ben-venue,

From Benledi to wild Uamvar;

I might track, through each hard Irish name,
The rebounds of this asinine strain,
Till from Neddy to Neddy, it came

To the chief Neddy, K-ny-n, again;

Might tell how it roar'd in R-thd-ne,
How from D-ws-n it died off genteelly-
How hollow it rung from the crown

Of the fat-pated Marquis of E-y;

How, on hearing my Lord of G―e,
Thistle-eaters, the stoutest, gave way,
Outdone, in their own special line,
By the forty-ass power of his bray!
But, no-1

-for so humble a bard

'Tis a subject too trying to touch on; Such noblemen's names are too hard, And their noddles too soft to dwell much on.

Oh Echo, sweet nymph of the hill,

Of the dell, and the deep-sounding shelves;

If, in spite of Narcissus, you still

Take to fools who are charm'd with themselves,

Who knows but, some morning retiring,

To walk by the Trent's wooded side, You may meet with N-wc-stle, admiring His own lengthen'd ears in the tide!

Or, on into Cambria straying,

Find K-ny-n, that double-tongued elf, In his love of ass-cendency, braying A Brunswick duet with himself!

INCANTATION.

FROM THE NEW TRAGEDY OF THE BRUNSWICKERS." 1898. SCENE.-Penenden Plain. In the middle, a caldron boding. Thunder.-Enter Three Brunswickers.

1st Bruns.-THRICE hath scribbling K-ny-a scrawl'd,

2d Bruns.-Once hath fool N-wc-stle bawl'd,

2 Commonly called "Paddy Blake's Echoes."

3 Anti-Catholic associations, under the title of Brunswick Club, were at this time becoming numerous both in England and Ireland.

3d Bruns.-B-xl-y snores:-'tis time, 'tis

time,

1st Bruns.-Round about the caldron go; In the poisonous nonsense throw. Bigot spite, that long hath grown,

Like a toad within a stone,
Sweltering in the heart of Sc-tt,
Boil we in the Brunswick pot.

All.- Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,
Eld—n, talk, and K-ny-n, scribble.

2d Bruns.-Slaver from N-wc-stle's quill In the noisome mess distil,

Brimming high our Brunswick broth
Both with venom and with froth.

Mix the brains (though apt to hash ill,
Being scant) of Lord M-ntc--shel,
With that malty stuff which Ch-nd-s
Drivels as no other man does.
Catch (i. e. if catch you can)
One idea, spick and span,
From my Lord of S-1-sb-y, —
One idea, though it be
Smaller than the "happy flea,"
Which his sire, in sonnet terse,
Wedded to immortal verse.'
Though to rob the son is sin,
Put his one idea in;

And, to keep it company,
Let that conjuror W-nch-ls-a
Drop but half another there,
If he hath so much to spare.

Dreams of murders and of arsons,
Hatch'd in heads of Irish parsons,
Bring from every hole and corner,
Where ferocious priests, like H—rn—r,
Purely for religious good,

Cry aloud for Papist's blood,

Blood for W-lls, and such old women,
At their ease to wade and swim in.

All.-Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,
B-xl-y, talk, and K-ny-n, scribble.

3d Bruns.- Now the charm begin to brew; Sisters, sisters, add thereto

Scraps of L-thbr-dge's old speeches,
Mix'd with leather from his breeches.
Rinsings of old B-xl-y's brains,
Thicken'd (if you'll take the pains)
With that pulp which rags create,
In their middle, nympha state,
Ere, like insects frail and sunny,
Forth they wing abroad as money.
There-the Hell-broth we've enchanted-
Now but one thing more is wanted.

HOW TO MAKE A GOOD POLITICIAN. WHENE'ER you're in doubt, said a Sage I once knew,

"Twixt two lines of conduct which course to pursue, Ask a woman's advice, and, whate'er she advise, Do the very reverse, and you're sure to be wise.

Of the same use as guides, are the Brunswicker throng; [wrong, In their thoughts, words, and deeds, so instinctively That, whatever they counsel, act, talk, or indite, Take the opposite course, and you're sure to be right.

So golden this rule, that, had Nature denied you The use of that finger post, Reason, to guide you— Were you even more doltish than any given man is, More soft than N-wc-stle, more twaddling than Van is,

I'd stake my repute, on the following conditions, To make you the soundest of sound politicians.

Place yourself near the skirts of some high-flying Tory

Some Brunswicker parson, of port-drinking glory,Watch well how he dines, during any great Ques[tion

tion

If he's up, you may swear that foul weather is nigh;
If he's down, you may look for a bit of blue sky.
Never mind what debaters or journalists say,
Only ask what he thinks, and then think t'other way.
Does he hate the Smali-note Bill? then firmly rely
The Small-note Bill's a blessing, though you don't
know why.

Is Brougham his aversion? then Harry's your man.
Does he quake at O'Connell? take doubly to Dan.
Is he all for the Turks? then, at once, take the
whole

Russian Empire (Czar, Cossacks, and all) to your soul.

In short, whatsoever he talks, thinks, or is,

Be your thoughts, words, and essence the contrast of his.

Nay, as Siamese ladiess-at least, the polite onesAll paint their teeth black, 'cause the devil has

white ones

If ev'n, by the chances of time or of tide,

Your Tory, for once, should have sense on his side, Even then stand aloof-for, be sure that Old Nick, When a Tory talks sensibly, means you some trick.

Such my recipe is- and, in one single verse,
I shall now, in conclusion, its substance rehearse
Be all that a Brunswicker is not, nor could be,
And then-you'll be all that an honest man should
be.

EPISTLE OF CONDOLENCE,

FROM A SLAVE-LORD TO A COTTON-LORD.

ALAS! my dear friend, what a state of affairs!

How unjustly we both are despoil'd of our rights! Not a pound of black flesh shall I leave to my heirs, Nor must you any more work to death little whites.

Both fore'd to submit to that general controller Of Kings, Lords, and cotton mills, Public Opinion,

No more shall you beat with a big-billy-roller, Nor I with the cart-whip assert my dominion.

Whereas, were we suffer'd to do as we please With our Blacks and our Whites, as of yore we were let,

We might range them alternate, like harpsichord keys,

And between us thump out a good piebald duet.

But this fun is all over;-farewell to the zest

Which Slavery now lends to each tea-cup we sip, Which makes still the cruellest coffee the best, And that sugar the sweetest which smacks of the whip.

Ah quoties dubius Scriptis exarsit amator! THE Ghost of Miltiades came at night, And he stood by the bed of the Benthamite, And he said, in a voice, that thrill'd the frame. "If ever the sound of Marathon's name

"Hath fir'd thy blood or flush'd thy brow,

"Lover of Liberty, rouse thee now!

The Benthamite, yawning, left his bed-
Away to the Stock Exchange he sped.
And he found the Scrip of Greece so high,
That it fir'd his blood, it flush'd his eye,
And oh, 'twas a sight for the Ghost to see.
For never was Greek more Greek than he!
And still as the premium higher went,
His ecstasy rose-so much per cent.,
(As we see in a glass, that tells the weather,
The heat and the silver rise together,)
And Liberty sung from the patriot's lip,
While a voice from his pocket whisper'd "Scrip!"
The Ghost of Miltiades came again;-
He smil'd, as the pale moon smiles through rain,
For his soul was glad at that patriot strain;
(And poor, dear ghost-how little he knew
The jobs and the tricks of the Philhellene crew?)
Blessings and thanks!" was all he said,
Then, melting away, like a night-dream, fled!

The Benthamite hears- amaz'd that ghosts Could be such fools, -and away he posts,

One of the operations in cotton mills usually performed by children.

A patriot still? Ah no, ah no-
Goddess of Freedom, thy Scrip is low,
And, warm and fond as thy lovers are,
Thou triest their passion, when under par.
The Benthamite's ardour fast decays,
By turns he weeps, and swears, and prays,
And wishes the d-1 had Crescent and Cross,
Ere he had been forc'd to sell at a loss.
They quote him the Stock of various nations,
But, spite of his classic associations,
Lord, how he loathes the Greek quotations!
"Who'll buy my Scrip? Who'll buy my Scrip?"
Is now the theme of the patriot's lip,
As he runs to tell how hard his lot is
To Messrs. Orlando and Luriottis,
And says, "Oh Greece, for Liberty's sake,
"Do buy my Scrip, and I vow to break
"Those dark, unholy bonds of thine-
"If you'll only consent to buy up mine!"
The Ghost of Miltiades came once more; —
His brow, like the night, was lowering o'er,
And he said, with a look that flash'd dismay,
"Of Liberty's foes the worst are they,

He, at length, against Syntax has taken his stand, And sets all the Nine Parts of Speech at defiance.

Next advices, no doubt, further facts will afford; In the meantime the danger most imminent grows,

He has taken the Life of one eminent Lord, And whom he'll next murder the Lord only knows.

Wednesday Evening.

Since our last, matters, luckily, look more serene; Though the rebel, 'tis stated, to aid his defection, Has seized a great Powder-no, Puff Magazine, And the' explosions are dreadful in every direction.

What his meaning exactly is, nobody knows,
As he talks (in a strain of intense botheration)
Of lyrical "ichor'," "gelatinous" prose,"

And a mixture call'd amber immortalisation.3

Now, he raves of a bard he once happen'd to meet, Seated high" among rattlings," and churning a sonnet;

Now, talks of a mystery, wrapp'd in a sheet, With a halo (by way of a nightcap) upon it!"

We shudder in tracing these terrible lines; Something bad they must mean, though we can't make it out;

For, whate'er may be guess'd of Galt's secret designs, That they're all Anti-English no Christian can doubt.

RESOLUTIONS

PASSED AT A LATE MEETING OF REVERENDS AND RIGHT REVERENDS.

RESOLV'D-to stick to every particle
Of every Creed and every Article;
Reforming nought, or great or little,
We'll stanchly stand by every tittle,
And scorn the swallow of that soul
Which cannot boldly bolt the whole.

Resolv'd that, though St. Athanasius
In damning souls is rather spacious-
Though wide and far his curses fall,
Our Church "hath stomach for them all;"
And those who're not content with such,
May e'en be d-d ten times as much.

5 "He was a mystery in a winding sheet, crowned with a halo." Ibid.

One of the questions propounded to the Puritans in 1573 was — "Whether the Book of Service was good and godly, every tittle grounded on the Holy Scripture?" On which an honest Dissenter remarks" Surely they had a wonderful opinion of their Service Book that there was not a tittle amiss in it." Ꮓ Ꮓ 2