And the Company hope yet to witness the hour,

When, by strongly applying the mare-motive1 SOME ACCOUNT OF THE LATE DINNER

power,

A three-decker novel, 'midst oceans of praise,

TO DAN.

May be written, launch'd, read, and-forgot, in FROM tongue to tongue the rumour flew ;

three days!

In addition to all this stupendous celerity,
Which to the no small relief of posterity-
Pays off at sight the whole debit of fame,
Nor troubles futurity ev'n with a name

(A project that wo'n't as much tickle Tom Tegg

as us,

Since 'twill rob him of his second-priced Pegasus);
We, the Company-still more to show how im-

mense

All ask'd, aghast, "Is't true? is't true?"

But none knew whether 'twas fact or fable:
And still the unholy rumour ran,
From Tory woman to Tory man,

Though none to come at the truth was able-
Till, lo, at last, the fact came out,
The horrible fact, beyond all doubt,

That Dan had din'd at the Viceroy's table;

Had flesh'd his Popish knife and fork
In the heart of the' Establish'd mutton and pork !
Who can forget the deep sensation

Is the power o'er the mind of pounds, shillings, That news produc'd in this orthodox nation?

and pence;

And that not even Phoebus himself, in our day,
Could get up a lay without first an outlay —
Beg to add, as our literature soon may compare,
In its quick make and vent, with our Birmingham

ware,

And it doesn't at all matter in either of these lines,
How sham is the article, so it but shines,-
We keep authors ready, all perch'd, pen in hand,
To write off, in any given style, at command.
No matter what bard, be he living or dead,
Ask a work from his pen, and 'tis done soon as said:
There being, on the' establishment, six WalterScotts,
One capital Wordsworth, and Southeys in lots;-
Three choice Mrs. Nortons, all singing like syrens,
While most of our pallid young clerks are Lord
Byrons.

;

Then we've ***s and ** *s (for whom there's small call),

And ***s and *s (for whom no call at all).

In short, whosoe'er the last "Lion" may be,
We've a Bottom who'll copy his roar 3 to a T,
And so well, that not one of the buyers who've
got 'em

Can tell which is lion, and which only Bottom.

N.B.-The company, since they set up in this line,
Have mov'd their concern, and are now at the sign
Of the Muse's Velocipede, Fleet Street, where all
Who wish well to the scheme are invited to call.

1" "Tis money makes the mare to go."

2 We have lodgings apart, for our posthumous people, As we find that, if left with the live ones, they keep ill.

Deans, rectors, curates, all agreed,

If Dan was allow'd at the Castle to feed,
'Twas clearly all up with the Protestant creed!
There had'nt, indeed, such an apparition

Been heard of, in Dublin, since that day
When, during the first grand exhibition
Of Don Giovanni, that naughty play,
There appear'd, as if rais'd by necromancers,
An extra devil among the dancers!
Yes-ev'ry one saw, with fearful thrill,
That a devil too much had join'd the quadrille ; 4
And sulphur was smelt, and the lamps let fall
A grim, green light o'er the ghastly ball,
And the poor sham devils didn't like it at all;
For, they knew from whence the' intruder had come,
Though he left, that night, his tail at home.

This fact, we see, is a parallel case

To the dinner that, some weeks since, took place.
With the difference slight of fiend and man,

It shows what a nest of Popish sinners
That city must be, where the devil and Dan

May thus drop in, at quadrilles and dinners!

But, mark the end of these foul proceedings,
These demon hops and Popish feedings.
Some comfort 'twill be-to those, at least,

Who've studied this awful dinner question—

To know that Dan, on the night of that feast,
Was seiz'd with a dreadful indigestion ;
That envoys were sent, post-haste, to his priest,
To come and absolve the suffering sinner,
For eating so much at a heretic dinner;
And some good people were even afraid
That Peel's old confectioner still at the trade-
Had poison'd the Papist with orangeade.

3"Bottom: Let me play the lion; I will roar you as 'twere any nightingale."

4 History of the Irish stage.

There was also (as mention'd, in rhyme and in Thus, while your blust'rers of the Tory school
prose, is)
Find Ireland's sanest sons so hard to rule,
One meek-ey'd matron, in Whig doctrines nurst,
Is all that's ask'd to curb the maddest, worst!

Gold heap'd, throughout Egypt, on every shrine, To make rings for right reverend crocodiles'

noses

Just such as, my Ph-llp-ts, would look well Show me the man that dares, with blushless brow, in thine.

But one needn't fly off, in this erudite mood;

And 'tis clear, without going to regions so sunny, That priests love to do the least possible good,

For the largest most possible quantum of money.

Prate about Erin's rage and riot now ;

Now, when her temperance forms her sole excess;
When long-lov'd whiskey, fading from her sight,
"Small by degrees, and beautifully less,"
like other spirits, vanish quite;

Will soon,
When of red coats the number's grown so small,
That soon, to cheer the warlike parson's eyes,

"Of him," saith the text, "unto whom much is No glimpse of scarlet will be seen at all,

given,

"Of him much, in turn, will be also requir'd : ""By me," quoth the sleek and obese man of heaven

"Give as much as you will-more will still be desir'd."

Save that which she of Babylon supplies;Or, at the most, a corporal's guard will be,

Of Ireland's red defence the sole remains ; While of its gaols bright woman keeps the key, And captive Paddies languish in her chains! Long may such lot be Erin's, long be mine!

More money! more churches!—oh Nimrod, hadst Oh yes-if ev'n this world, though bright it shine,

thou

In Wisdom's eyes a prison-house must be,

'Stead of Tower-extension, some shorter way At least let woman's hand our fetters twine,

"The widow Nethercoat is appointed gaoler of Loughrea, in IT glads us much to be able to say,

the room of her deceased husband."- Limerick Chronicle.

That a meeting is fix'd, for some early day,
Of all such dowagers-he or she-

(No matter the sex, so they dowagers be,)
Whose opinions, concerning Church and State,
From about the time of the Curfew date-
Staunch sticklers still for days by-gone,
And admiring them for their rust alone-
To whom if we would a leader give,
Worthy their tastes conservative,
We need but some mummy-statesman raise,
Who was pickled and potted in Ptolemy's days;
For that's the man, if waked from his shelf,
To conserve and swaddle this world, like himself.

Such, we're happy to state, are the old he-dames
Who've met in committee, and given their names

(In good hieroglyphics), with kind intent
To pay some handsome compliment

To their sister-author, the nameless he,
Who wrote, in the last new Quarterly,
That charming assault upon Popery;
An article justly prized by them,

As a perfect antediluvian gem

The work, as Sir Sampson Legend would say,
Of some "fellow the Flood couldn't wash away."

The fund being rais'd, there remain'd but to see
What the dowager-author's gift was to be.
And here, I must day, the Sisters Blue
Show'd delicate taste and judgment too.
For, finding the poor man suffering greatly
From the awful stuff he has thrown up lately-
So much so, indeed, to the alarm of all,
As to bring on a fit of what doctors call
The Antipapistico-monomania

(I'm sorry with such a long word to detain ye),
They've acted the part of a kind physician,
By suiting their gift to the patient's condition;
And, as soon as 'tis ready for presentation,
We shall publish the facts, for the gratification
Of this highly-favour'd and Protestant nation.

Meanwhile, to the great alarm of his neighbours,
He still continues his Quarterly labours;
And often has strong No-Popery fits,
Which frighten his old nurse out of her wits.
Sometimes he screams, like Scrub in the play, 2
"Thieves! Jesuits! Popery!" night and day;
Takes the Printer's Devil for Doctor Dens, 3
And shies at him heaps of High-church pens; 4
Which the Devil (himself a touchy Dissenter)
Feels all in his hide, like arrows, enter.

As I sate in my study, lone and still,
Thinking of Sergeant Talfourd's Bill,
And the speech by Lawyer Sugden made,
In spirit congenial, for "the Trade,"
Sudden I sunk to sleep, and, lo,

Upon Fancy's reinless night-mare flitting,
I found myself, in a second or so,
At the table of Messrs. Type and Co.

With a goodly group of diners sitting;-
All in the printing and publishing line,
Drest, I thought, extremely fine,
And sipping, like lords, their rosy wine;
While I, in a state near inanition,

With coat that hadn't much nap to spare
(Having just gone into its second edition),

Was the only wretch of an author there.
But think, how great was my surprise,
When I saw, in casting round my eyes,
That the dishes, sent up by Type's she-cooks,
Bore all, in appearance, the shape of books;
Large folios-God knows where they got 'em,
In these small times-at top and bottom;

'Stead of swallowing wholesome stuff from the And quartos (such as the Press provides

druggist's,

He will keep raving of "Irish Thuggists;">

Tells us they all go murd'ring, for fun,

From rise of morn till set of sun,

Pop, pop, as fast as a minute-gun !6

If ask'd, how comes it the gown and cassock are

Safe and fat, 'mid this general massacre-
How haps it that Pat's own population

But swarms the more for this trucidation

For no one to read them) down the sides.
Then flash'd a horrible thought on my brain,
And I said to myself, ""Tis all too plain;
"Like those, well known in school quotations,
"Who ate up for dinner their own relations,
"I see now, before me, smoking here,

"The bodies and bones of my brethren dear;

1 See Congreve's Love for Love.

2 Beaux Stratagem.

3 The writer of the article has groped about, with much success, in what he calls "the dark recesses of Dr. Dens's disquisitions." — Quarterly Review.

4" Pray, may we ask, has there been any rebellious movement of Popery in Ireland, since the planting of the Ulster colonies, in which something of the kind was not visible among the Presbyterians of the North ?"— Ibid.

5" Lord Lorton, for instance, who, for clearing his estate of a village of Irish Thuggists," &c. &c.—Quarterly Review. 6" Observe how murder after murder is committed like minute-guns." Ibid.

7" Might not the archives of the Propaganda possibly supply the key?"

8 Written during the late agitation of the question of Copyright.

A whole dishful of Toms--Moore, Dibdin, Bayly, That the Three-headed Dian2 would kindly, this Bolted by Type and Co. so gaily!