HUNTING THE HARE.
Would you hear of the triumph of purity?
Would you share in the joy of the Queen?
List to my song; and, in perfect security,
Witness a row where you durst not have been:
All kinds of Addresses,
From collars of S.S.'s
To venders of cresses,
Came up like a fair;
And all thro' September,
October, November,
And down to December,
They hunted this Hare!
First there appear'd, with the title of visitors,
Folks, whom of fair reputation they call,
Who, in good truth, and to candid inquisitors,
Seem to have no reputation at all,
The Woods', hen and chicken,
And Damer, moon-stricken,
And Russells, come thick in,
To greet the fat dame;
And the Duchess of Leinster,
(Well behaved while a spinster,)
With drabs of Westminster,
Now mixes her name!
Next, in great state, came the Countess of Tankerville,
With all the sons and the daughters she had;
Those who themselves are annoy'd by a canker vile,
Joy to discover another as bad:
So Lady Moll came on,
With ci-devant Grammont,
And (awful as Ammon)
Her eloquent spouse!
And frothy Grey Bennett,
That very day se'nnight,
Went down in his dennett,
To Brandenburgh House.
Bold, yet half blushing, the gay Lady Jersey,
Drove up to the entrance—but halted outside,
While Sefton's fair tribe, from the banks of the Mersey,
Who promised to keep her in countenance—shyed!
But this never hinders
The sham Lady Lindors,
Who stoutly goes indoors—
Old Rush does the same;
Great scorn of all such is!—
But Bedford's brave Duchess,
To get in her clutches,
Delighted the dame.
Lank Lady Anne brought her sister of Somerset;
The least she could do for the wages she clears:
If the merits of either were up to the hammer set,
They'd fetch much the same as Lord Archibald's ears.
Not so Lady Sarah,
For she, under care o'
Some Hume or O'Meara,
Lies sick in her bed;
Yet her name they twist in
By means they persist in
Of even enlisting
The names of the dead!
Then came the premature wife of her pen-man,
Her guide, her adviser—in short, Mrs. Brougham,
And then the spare rib of Go-sin-no-more Denman,
And sweet Mrs. Williams, and young Mrs. Hume;
Old Barber, and Taylor,
And Hood, could not fail her.
But the Muse can't detail, or
Discuss what remains;—
Except Mrs. Wilde,
Who, for roast and for boil'd,
While as cook-maid she toil'd,
Was the pride of Devaynes.
The Earl-King, fearing the tumult should ever end,
Sends her his brother, while he keeps away;
Honour'd by courtesy, by his gown reverend,
But neither by nature, came sanctified Grey,
With the Norwich Archdeacon,
Who thinks he may speak on,
Because, like a beacon,
His head is so light;
And sea-beaten Madocks,
And some other sad dogs,
Who (like stinking haddocks)
By rotting grow bright.
Damsels of Marybone, deck'd out in articles,
Borrow'd of brokers for shillings and pence;
The eye of vulgarity any thing smart tickles;
Drabs love a ride at another's expence;
So swarming like loaches,
In ten hackney coaches,
They make their approaches
And pull at the bell;
And then they flaunt brave in,
Preceded by Craven,
And, clean and new shaven,
Topographical Gell.
Next came a motley assemblage of what I call
Mummers, and mountebanks, wildly array'd;
Hod-men, and coal-heavers, landmen and nautical,
Tag-rag and bobtail, a strange masquerade!
A rout of sham sailors,
Escap'd from their jailors,
As sea-bred as tailors,
In Shropshire or Wilts:
But mark Oldi's smile and hers,
Greeting, as Highlanders,
Half a score Mile-Enders,
Shivering in kilts!
Noel and Moore are the pink of her quality,
Judge what must be the more mean partisans!
What sweepings of kennels—what scums of rascality—
Hired and attired to enact artisans;
Sham painters, and stainers,
Smiths, coopers, cordwainers,
And glaziers—chief gainers,
In such a turmoil,
Though chandlers and joiners,
And forgers and coiners,
And pocket-purloiners,
All share in the spoil.
Verdant green-grocers, all mounted on Jack-asses,
(Lately called Guildfords, in honour of Fred,)
Sweet nymphs of Billingsgate, tipsy as Bacchuses,
Roll'd in like porpoises, heels over head!
And the better to charm her,
Three tinkers in armour,
All hired by Harmer,
Brave Thistlewood's friend;
Those stout men of metal,
Who think they can settle
The State, if a kettle
They're able to mend.
Next come the presents—Whitechapel (where Jewsbury)
Sends needles to hem Dr. Fellowes's lawn;
Cracknells from Cowes—sweet simnels from Shrewsbury—
Rump-steaks from Dublin—and collars of brawn—
A pig—and a blanket—
A sturgeon from Stangate—
The donors all thank-ed
By Royal desire!
Old Parr gave his benison
To Parkins's venison,
But the pamphlet of Tennyson
He threw in the fire.
Last came the Lack-wit address of Sir Bunbury,
Bearding the Crown with his sinecure wrath!
'Twould look, I fear, too like a libel, to unbury
All the exploits of this Knight of the Bath:
From service retreated;
By Wilson out-prated;
Like him, self-created;
His star is his sin!
It's splendour is lost in
The honours of Austin,
And Hownam, who crost in
With faint-away Flynn!
And now, e'er I send off my song to the town sellers,
('Twill fetch rather more than the speeches of Hume,)
We'll give one huzza to her pure privy Councillors,
Lushington, Williams, Wilde, Denman and Brougham.
With Vizard and Cobbett,
And Hunt who would mob it,
And Cam who would job it
As Dad did before;
With Waithman the prate-man,
And Pearson the plate man,
And Matthew the great man,
Who found us the hare.[23]