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Quick a Council is called—the whole Cabinet sits-
The Archbishops declare, frightened out of their wits,
That if vile Popish Ponies should eat at my manger,
From that awful moment the Church is in danger!
As, give them but stabling, and shortly no stalls
Will suit their proud stomachs but those at St. Paul's.
The Doctor and he, the devout Man of Leather,
Vansittart, now laying their Saint-heads together,
Declare that these skittish young a-bominations
Are clearly foretold in Chap. vi. Revelations-
Nay, they verily think they could point out the one
Which the Doctor's friend Death was to canter upon!
Lord Harrowby, hoping that no one imputes
To the Court any fancy to persecute brutes,
Protests, on the word of himself and his cronies,
That had these said creatures been Asses, not Ponies,
The Court would have started no sort of objection,
As Asses were, there, always sure of protection.
“If the Princess will keep them,” says Lord Castlereagh,
“To make them quite harmless the only true way
Is (as certain Chief-Justices do with their wives)
To fog them within half an inch of their lives—
If they've any bad Irish blood lurking about,
This (he knew by experience) would soon draw it out."
Or—if this be thought cruel – his Lordship proposes
“The new Veto snaffle to bind down their noses-
A pretty contrivance, made out of old chains,
Which appears to indulge, while it doubly restrains;
Which, however high-mettled, their gamesomeness checks,”
Adds his Lordship, humanely, or else break their necks!”
This proposal received pretty general applause
From the Statesmen around—and the neck-breaking clause
Had a vigour about it, which soon reconciled
Even Eldon himself to a measure so mild.
So the snaffles, my dear, were agreed to, nem. con.
And my Lord Castlereagh, having so often shone
In the fettering line, is to buckle them on.
I shall drive to your door in these Vetos some day;
But, at present, 'adieu !-I must hurry away
To go see my Mamma, as I'm suffered to meet her
For just half an hour by the Queen's best repeater.
FROM COLONEL M'MAHON TO G. FRANCIS LECKIE, ESQ.
DEAR sir, I've just had time to look
Into your very learned book, *
* See the last number of the Edinburgh Review.
Wherein -as plain as man can speak
Whose English is half-modern Greek-
You prove that we can ne'er intrench
Our happy isles against the French,
Till Royalty in England's made
A much more independent trade-
In short, until the House of Guelph
Lays Lords and Commons on the shelf,
And boldly sets up for itself!
All that can well be understood
In this said book is vastly good ;
And, as to what's incomprehensible,
I dare be sworn 'tis full as sensible.
But-to your work's immortal credit-
The Prince, good sir, the Prince has read it;
(The only book, himself remarks,
Which he has read since Mrs. Clarke's.)
Last Levee-morn he looked it through,
During that awful hour or two
Of grave tonsorial preparation,
Which, to a fond, admiring nation,
Sends forth, announced by trump and drum,
The best-wigged Prince in Christendom !
He thinks with you, the imagination
Of partnership in legislation
Could only enter in the noddles
Of dull and ledger-keeping twaddles,
Whose heads on firms are running so
They e'en must have a King and Co.;
And hence, too, eloquently
On checks and balances, and so forth.
But now, he trusts, we're coming near a
Better and more royal era ;
When England's monarch need but say,
“Whip me those scoundrels, Castlereagh!”
Or-"Hang me up those Papists, Eldon!”
And 'twill be done-aye, faith, and well done.
With view to which I've his command
To beg, sir, from your travelled hand
(Round which the foreign graces swarm)
A plan of radical Reform ;
Compiled and chosen, as best you can,
In Turkey or at Ispahan,
And quite upturning, branch and root,
Lords, Commons, and Burdett to boot !
But, pray, whate'er you may impart, write
Somewhat more brief than Major Cartwright.
Else, though the Prince be long in rigging,
'Twould take, at least, a fortnight's wigging,
Two wigs to every paragraph,
Before he well could get through half.
You'll send it also speedily-
As, truth to say, 'twixt you and me,
His Highness, heated by your work,
Already thinks himself Grand Turk!
And you'd have laughed, had you seen how
He scared the Chancellor just now,
When (on his Lordship’s entering puffed) he
Slapped his back and called him Mufti!”
The tailors, too, have got commands
To put directly into hands
All sorts of dulimans and pouches,
With sashes, turbans, and paboutches
(While Yarmouth's sketching out a plan
Of new Moustaches à l'Ottomane),
And all things fitting and expedient
To turkify our gracious Regent“
You, therefore, have no time to waste-
So, send your System.-
Yours, in haste.
Postscript. Before I send this scrawl away, I seize a moment, just to say There's some parts of the Turkish system So vulgar 'twere as well you missed 'em. For instance—in Seraglio matters— Your Turk, whom girlish fondness flatters, Would fill his haram (tasteless fool!) With tittering, red-cheeked things from school: But here (as in that fairy land Where Love and Age went hand in hand ;* Where lips, till sixty, shed no honey, And grandams were worth any money) Our Sultan has much riper notions; So, let your list of she-promotions Include those only, plump and sage, Who've reached the regulation-age ; That is—as near as one can fix From Peerage dates—full fifty-six.
This rule's for favourites-nothing more-
For, as to wives, a Grand Signor,
Though not decidedly without them,
Need never care one curse about them !
FROM GEORGE PRINCE REGENT TO THE EARL OF YARMOUTH.
We misseu you last night at the “hoary old sinner's,”
Who gave us, as usual, the cream of good dinners-
His soups scientific--his fishes quite prime-
His patés superb—and his cutlets sublime !
In short, 'twas the snug sort of dinner to stir a
Stomachic orgasm in my Lord Ellenborough,
Who set to, to be sure, with miraculous force,
And exclaimed, between mouthfuls, “a He-Cook of course !--
While you live-(What's there under that cover, pray, look) —
While you live-(l'll just taste it)-ne'er keep a She-Cook.
'Tis a sound Salic Law-(a small bit of that toast)—
Which ordains that a female shall ne'er rule the roast;
For Cookery's a secret-(this turtle's uncommon)-
Like Masonry, never found out by a woman !”
The dinner, you know, was in gay celebration
Of my brilliant triumph and Hunt's condemnation ;
A compliment, too, to his Lordship the Judge
For his speech to the Jury—and zounds ! who would grudge
Turtle-soup, though it came to five guineas a bowl,
To reward such a loyal and complaisant soul?
We were all in high gig-Roman punch and Tokay
Travelled round, till our heads travelled just the same way;
And we cared not for juries or libels-no-damme! nor
E'en for the threats of last Sunday's Examiner !
More good things were eaten than said—but Tom Tyrrhić
In quoting Joe Miller, you know, has some merit,
And, hearing the sturdy Justiciary Chief
Say-sated with turtle"I'll now try the beef”.
Tommy whispered him (giving his Lordship a sly hit)
“I fear 'twill be hung-beef, my Lord, if you try it!”
And Camden was there, who, that morning, had gone
To fit his new Marquis's coronet on;
And the dish set before him-oh, dish well-devised !-
Was, what old Mother Glasse calls, “a calf's-head surprised !”
The brains were near Sherry; and once they'd been fine;
But, of late, they had lain so long soaking in wine
That, however, we still might, in courtesy, call
Them a fine dish of brains, they were no brains at all.
When the dinner was over, we drank, every one
In a bumper, “the venial delights of Crim. Con."
* This letter, as the reader will perceive, was written the day after a dinner ziven by the Marquis of H-d-.
At which H-d-t with warm reminiscences gloated,
And Ellenborough chuckled to hear himself quoted.
Our next round of toasts was a fancy quite new,
For we drank—and you'll own 'twas benevolent too-
To those well-meaning husbands, cits, parsons, or peers,
Whom we've, any time, honoured by kissing their dears :
This museum of wittols was comical rather;
Old H-d-t gave M—ss—y, and I gave your father.
In short, not a soul till this morning would budge-
We were all fun and frolic !.--and even the Judge
Laid aside, for the time, his juridical fashion,
And through the whole night was not once in a passion!
I write this in bed, while my whiskers are airing,
And Mac has a sly dose of jalap preparing
For poor Tommy Tyrrhit at breakfast to quaff-
As I feel I want something to give me a laugh,
And there's nothing so good as old Tommy, kept close
To his Cornwall accounts, after taking a dose !
FROM THE RIGHT HON. PATRICK D-GEN--N, TO THE RIGHT HON. BIR
Last week, dear Nichol, making merry
At dinner with our Secretary,
When all were drunk, or pretty near,
(The time for doing business here),
Says he to me, “Sweet Bully Bottom !
These Papist dogs—hiccup-od rot 'em !
Deserve to be bespattered-hiccup-
With all the dirt e'en you can pick up-
But, as the Prince-(here's to him-hill-
Hip, hip, hurra !)—is trying still
To humbug them with kind professions,
And, as you deal in strong expressions-
'Rogue' -'traitor'-hiccup-and all that-
You must be muzzled, Doctor Pat !
You must indeed—hiccup—that's flat."-
Yes— "muzzled " was the word, Sir John-
These fools have clapped a muzzle on
The boldest mouth that e'er ran o'er
With slaver of the times of yore !
Was it for this that back I went
As far as Lateran and Trent,