THE MINISTRY’S ODE TO THE PASSIONS.
NOT BY COLLINS.
When the Whig Ministry had run,
Nor left behind a mother’s son,
The Tories, at their leader’s call,
Came thronging round him, one and all,
Exulting, braying, cringing, coaxing,
Expert at humbugging and hoaxing;
By turns they felt an honest zeal
For private good and public weal;
Till all at once they raised such yells,
As rung in Apsley House the bells:
And as they sought snug berths to get
In Bobby Peel’s new cabinet,
Each, for interest ruled the hour,
Would prove his taste for place and power.
First Follett’s hand, his skill to try,
Upon the seals bewilder’d laid;
But back recoil’d—he scarce knew why—
Of Lyndhurst’s angry scowl afraid.
Next Stanley rush’d with frenzied air;
His eager haste brook’d no delay:
He rudely seized the Foreign chair,
And bade poor Cupid trudge away.
With woeful visage Melbourne sate—
A pint of double X his grief beguiled;
And inly pondering o’er his fate,
He bade th’ attendant pot-boy “draw it mild.”
But thou, Sir Jamie Graham—prig;
What was thy delighted musing?
Now accepting, now refusing,
Till on the Admiralty pitch’d,
Still would that thought his speech prolong;
To gain the place for which he long had itch’d,
He call’d on Bobby still through all the song;
But ever as his sweetest theme he chose,
A sovereign’s golden chink was heard at every close,
And Pollock grimly smiled, and shook his powder’d wig.
And longer had he droned—but, with a frown
Brougham impatient rose;
He threw the bench of snoring bishops down,
And, with a withering look,
The Whig-denouncing trumpet took,
And made a speech so fierce and true,
Thrashing, with might and main, both friend and foe;
And ever and anon he beat,
With doubled fist his cushion’d seat;
And though sometimes, each breathless pause between,
Astonished Melbourne at his side,
His moderating voice applied,
Yet still he kept his stern, unalter’d mien,
While battering the Whigs and Tories black and blue.
Thy ravings, Goulburn, to no theme were fix’d.
Not ev’n thy virtue is without its spots;
With piety thy politics were mix’d,
And now they courted Peel, now call’d on Doctor Watts.
With drooping jaw, like one half-screw’d,
Lord Johnny sate in doleful mood,
And for his Secretarial seat,
Sent forth his howlings sad, but sweet
Lost Normanby pour’d forth his sad adieu;
While Palmerston, with graceful air,
Wildly toss’d his scented hair;
And pensive Morpeth join’d the sniv’lling crew.
Yet still they lingered round with fond delay,
Humming, hawing, stopping, musing,
Tory rascals all abusing,
Till forced to move away.
But, oh! how alter’d was the whining tone
When, loud-tongued Lyndhurst, that unblushing wight,
His gown across his shoulders flung,
His wig with virgin-powder white,
Made an ear-splitting speech that down to Windsor rung,
The Tories’ call, that Billy Holmes well knew,
The turn-coat Downshire and his Orange crew;
Wicklow and Howard both were seen
Brushing away the wee bit green;
Mad Londonderry laugh’d to hear,
And Inglis scream’d and shook his ass’s ear
Last Bobby Peel, with hypocritic air,
He with modest look came sneaking:
First to “the Home” his easy vows addrest,—
But soon he saw the Treasury’s red chair,
Whose soft inviting seat he loved the best.
They would have thought, who heard his words,
They saw in Britain’s cause a patriot stand,
The proud defender of his land,
To aw’d and list’ning senates speaking;—
But as his fingers touch’d the purse’s strings,
The chinking metal made a magic sound,
While hungry placemen gather’d fast around:
And he, as if by chance or play,
Or that he would their venal votes repay,
The golden treasures round upon them flings.
SIR ROBERT PEEL AND THE QUEEN.
Upon the first interview of the Queen with Sir Robert Peel, her Majesty was determined to answer only in monosyllables to all he said; and, in fact, to make her replies an echo, and nothing more, to whatever he said to her. The following dialogue, which we have thrown into verse for the purpose of smoothing it—the tone of it, as spoken, having been on one side, at least, rather rough—ensued between the illustrious persons alluded to.
HE.—Before we into minor details go,
Do I possess your confidence or no?
SHE.—No.
HE.—You shall not vex me, though your treatment’s rough;
No, madam, I am made of sterner stuff.
SHE.—Stuff.
HE.—Really, if thus your minister you flout,
A single syllable he can’t get out.
SHE.—Get out!
HE.—But try me, madam; time indeed will show
Unto what lengths to serve you I would go.
SHE.—Go.
HE.—We both have power,—’tis doubtful which is greater;
These crooked words had better be made straighter.
SHE.—Traighter (Traitor.)
HE.—Farewell! and never in this friendly strain
(My proffer’d aid foregone) I breathe again!
SHE.—Gone. I breathe again!
SONGS OF THE SEEDY.—NO. 2.
I cannot rove with thee, where zephyrs float—
Sweet sylvan scenes devoted to the loves!—
For, oh! I have not got one decent coat,
Nor can I sport a single pair of gloves.
Gladly I’d wander o’er the verdant lawn,
Where graze contentedly the fleecy flock;
But can I show myself in gills so torn,
Or brave the public gaze in such a stock?
I know thou’lt answer me that love is blind,
And faults in one it worships can’t perceive;
It must be sightless, truly, not to find
The hole that’s gaping in my threadbare sleeve.
Farewell, my love—for, oh! by heaven, we part,
And though it cost me all the pangs of hell.
The herd shall not on thee inflict a smart,
By calling after us—“There goes a swell!”
A PRIVATE BOX.
During the clear-out on Wednesday last in Downing-street, a small chest, strongly secured, was found among some models of balloting-boxes. It had evidently been forgotten for some years, and upon opening it, was found to contain the Whig promises of 1832. They were immediately conveyed to Lord Melbourne, who appeared much astonished at these resuscitation of the
HOME OFFICE.