THE REJECTED ADDRESS OF THE MELANCHOLY WHIGS.
Alas! that poor old Whiggery should have been so silly as to go a-wooing. Infirm and tottering as he is, it was the height of insanity. Down he dropped on his bended knees before the object of his love; out he poured his touching addresses, lisped in the blandest, most persuasive tones; and what was his answer? Scoffs, laughs, kicks, rejection! Even Johnny Russell’s muse availed not, though it deserved a better fate. It gained him a wife, but could not win the electors. Our readers will discover the genius of the witty author of “Don Carlos” in the address, which, though rejected, we in pity immortalise in PUNCH.
Loved friends—kind electors, once more we are here
To beg your sweet voices—to tell you our deeds.
Though our Budget is empty, we’ve got—never fear—
A long full privy purse, to stand bribing and feeds.
For, oh! we are out-and-out Whigs—thorough Whigs!
Then, shout till your throttles, good people, ye crack;
Hurrah! for the troop of sublime “Thimble-rigs!”
Hurrah! for the jolly old Downing-street pack.
What we’ve done, and will do for you, haply you’ll ask:
All, all, gentle folks, you shall presently see.
Off your sugar we’ll take just one penny a cask!
Only adding a shilling a pound on your tea.
That’s the style for your Whigs—your reforming old Whigs!
Then, shout, &c.
Off your broad—think of this!—we will take—(if we can)—
A whole farthing a loaf; then, when wages decline,
By one-half—as they must—and you’re starving, each man
In our New Poor Law Bastiles may go lodge, and go dine.
That’s the plan of your Whigs—your kind-hearted, true Whigs!
Then, shout, &c.
Off the fine Memel timber, we’d take—if we could—
All tax, ’cause ’tis used in the palace and hall;
On the cottager’s, tradesman’s coarse Canada wood,
We will clap such a tax as shall pay us for all.
That’s the “dodge” for your Whigs—your poor-loving, true Whigs!
Then, shout, &c.
To free our dear brothers, the niggers, you know
Twenty millions and more we have fix’d on your backs.
’Twas gammon—’twas humbug—’twas swindle! for, lo!
We undo all we’ve done—we go trade in the blacks.
Your humanity Whigs!—anti-slavery Whigs!
Then, shout, &c.
When to Office we came, full two millions in store
We found safe and snug. Now, that surplus instead,
Besides having spent it, and six millions more,
Lo! we’re short, on the year, only two millions dead.
That’s the “go” for your Whigs—your retrenching old Whigs
Then, shout, &c.
In a word, round the throne we’ve stuck sisters and wives,
Our brothers and cousins fill bench, church, and steeple;
Assist us to stick in, at least for our lives,
And nicely “we’ll sarve out” Queen, Lords, ay, and People.
That’s the fun for your Whigs—your bed-chamber old Whigs!
Shout, shout, &c.
What was the reply to this pathetic, this generous appeal? Name it not at Woburn-abbey—whisper it not at Panshanger—breathe it not in the epicurean retreat of Brocket-hall! Tears, big tears, roll down our sympathetic checks as we write it. It was simply—“Cock-a-doodle-do!”