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 ladies—at least, the polite ones— All 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 forced 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 teacup we sip; Which makes still the cruellest coffee the best, And that sugar the sweetest which smacks of the whip.

Farewell, too, the Factory's white picaninniesSmall, living machines, which, if flogg'd to their tasks,

The Benthamite, yawning, left his bed-
Away to the Stock Exchange he sped,
And he found the Scrip of Greece so high,
That it fired 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 smiled, 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!)

And, warm and fond as thy lovers are,
Thou triest their passion, when under par.
The Benthamite's ardor fast decays,
By turns he weeps, and swears, and prays,
And wishes the d-1 had Crescent and Cross,
Ere he had been forced 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,
"Who turn to a trade her cause divine,
"And gamble for gold on Freedom's shrine?"
Thus saying, the Ghost, as he took his flight,
Gave a Parthian kick to the Benthamite,
Which sent him, whimpering, off to Jerry-
And vanish'd away to the Stygian ferry!

SIR ANDREW'S DREAM.

"Nec tu sperne piis venientia somnia portis :
Cum pia venerunt somnia, pondus habent."
PROPERT. lib. iv. eleg. 7.

As snug, on a Sunday eve, of late,
In his easy chair Sir Andrew sate,
Being much too pious, as every one knows,
To do aught, of a Sunday eve, but doze,
He dreamt a dream, dear, holy man,
And I'll tell you his dream as well as I can.
He found himself, to his great amaze,
In Charles the First's high Tory days,
And just at the time that gravest of Courts
Had publish'd its Book of Sunday Sports.140
Sunday Sports! what a thing for the ear
Of Andrew, even in sleep, to hear!-
It chanced to be, too, a Sabbath day,
When the people from church were coming away;
And Andrew with horror heard this song,
As the smiling sinners flock'd along:-
"Long life to the Bishops, hurrah! hurrah!
"For a week of work and a Sunday of play
"Make the poor man's life run merry away."

"There's May-Games, archery, Whitsun-ale,
"And a May-pole high to dance about.
"Or, should we be for a pole hard driven,

"Some lengthy saint, of aspect fell,

"With his pockets on earth, and his nose in heaven,
"Will do for a May-pole just as well.
"Then hurrah for the Bishops, hurrah! hurrah!

"A week of work and a Sabbath of play
"Make the poor man's life run merry away."

To Andy, who doesn't much deal in history, This Sunday scene was a downright mystery;

And God knows where might have ended the joke,
But, in trying to stop the fiddles, he woke.
And the odd thing is (as the rumor goes)

That since that dream-which, one would suppose,
Should have made his godly stomach rise,
Even more than ever, 'gainst Sunday pies—
He has view'd things quite with different eyes;
Is beginning to take, on matters divine,
Like Charles and the Bishops, the sporting line-
Is all for Christians jigging in pairs,
As an interlude 'twixt Sunday prayers;—
Nay, talks of getting Archbishop Howley
To bring in a Bill, enacting duly,

That all good Protestants, from this date,
May, freely and lawfully, recreate,
Of a Sunday eve, their spirits moody,

With Jack in the Straw, or Punch and Judy.

COME Wed with me, and we will write,
My Blue of Blues, from morn till night.
Chased from our classic souls shall be
All thoughts of vulgar progeny;
And thou shall walk through smiling rows
Of chubby duodecimos,

While I, to match thy products nearly,
Shall lie-in of a quarto yearly.
'Tis true, ev'n books entail some trouble;
But live productions give one double.
Correcting children is such bother,—
While printers' devils correct the other.
Just think, my own Malthusian dear,
How much more decent 'tis to hear
From male or female-as it may be―

AWFUL EVENT.

YES, Winchelsea, (I tremble while I pen it,)
Winchelsea's Earl hath cut the British Senate---
Hath said to England's Peers, in accent gruff,
That for ye all," [snapping his fingers,] and
exit, in a huff!

Disastrous news!-like that, of old, which spread From shore to shore, "our mighty Pan is dead," O'er the cross benches (cross from being cross'd) Sounds the loud wail, "Our Winchelsea is lost!"

Which of ye, Lords, that heard him, can forget
The deep impression of that awful threat,
"I quit your house!!"-'midst all that histories tell,
I know but one event that's parallel:-

It chanced at Drury Lane, one Easter night,
When the gay gods, too bless'd to be polite,
Gods at their ease, like those of learn'd Lucretius,
Laugh'd, whistled, groan'd, uproariously facetious-
A well-dress'd member of the middle gallery,
Whose "ears polite" disdain'd such low canaillerie,
Rose in his place—so grand, you'd almost swear
Lord Winchelsea himself stood towering there-
And like that Lord of dignity and nous,
Said, "Silence, fellows, or-I'll leave the house!!"

How brook'd the gods this speech? Ah well-a-day,
That speech so fine should be so thrown away!
In vain did this mid-gallery grandee
Assert his own two-shilling dignity-
In vain he menaced to withdraw the ray
Of his own full-price countenance away—
Fun against Dignity is fearful odds,

And as the Lords laugh now, so giggled then the gods!

THE NUMBERING OF THE CLERGY.

PARODY ON SIR CHARLES HAN. WILLIAMS'S FAMOUS

ODE,

"COME, CLOE, AND GIVE ME SWEET KISSES."

"We want more Churches and more Clergymen." Bishop of London's late Charge. "Rectorum numerum, terris pereuntibus, augent." Claudian in Eutrop.

COME, give us more Livings and Rectors,
For, richer, no realm ever gave;
But why, ye unchristian objectors,

Do ye ask us how many we crave?""

How sad a case!-just think of it—
If Goulbourn junior should be bit
By some insane Dissenter, roaming

Through Granta's halls, at large and foaming,
And with that aspect, ultra crabbed

Which marks Dissenters when they're rabid ! God only knows what mischiefs might

Result from this one single bite,

Or how the venom, once suck'd in,

Might spread and rage through kith and kin.

Mad folks, of all denominations,
First turn upon their own relations:
So that one Goulbourn, fairly bit,
Might end in maddening the whole kit,
Till, ah, ye gods, we'd have to rue
Our Goulbourn senior bitten too;
The Hychurchphobia in those veins,
Where Tory blood now redly reigns;—
And that dear man, who now perceives
Salvation only in lawn sleeves,