TORY BOONS.
Air.—“NORA CREINA”
The Whigs they promised every day
To cure the ills which did surround us;
It should have been, “no cure, no pay!”
For now we’re worse than when they found us.
The Tory clique at length are in,
And vow that they will save the nation,
So kindly give us, to begin—
Exchequer bills and ventilation.
Oh! the artful Tories dear,
Oh! the dear, the artful Tories
They alone perceive, ’tis clear,
That taxes tend to England’s glories.
The Whigs declared cheap bread was good;
To satisfy the people’s cravings
They tried to take the tax off wood—
Lord knows what might be done with shavings!
The Tories vow these schemes were wrong,
And adverse to good legislation;
Therefore, propose (so runs our song)—
Exchequer bills and ventilation.
Oh! the artful Tories dear,
Oh! the dear and artful Tories;
They alone perceive, ’tis clear,
Taxes tend to England’s glories.
The Whigs became the poor man’s foe,
Mix’d ashes in his cup of sorrow;
Nor thought the pauper’s “lot of woe,”
Perchance might be their own to-morrow.
The Tories said they were his friend,
That they abhorr’d procrastination;
So give—till next July shall end—
Exchequer bills and ventilation.
Oh! the artful Tories dear,
Oh! the dear and artful Tories;
They alone perceive, ’tis clear,
Taxes tend to England’s glories.
RECREATION FOR THE PUBLIC.
Sir Robert Peel seems impressed with the necessity of providing the citizens of London with additional parks, where they may recreate themselves, and breathe the free air of heaven. But, strange as it may seem, the people cannot live on fresh air, unaccompanied by some stomachic of a more substantial nature; yet they are forbidden to grumble at the diet, or, if they do, they are silenced according to the good old Tory plan of
OPENING A PARK FOR THE PEOPLE.
Colonel Sibthorp thinks he recollects having been Hannibal once—long ago—although he cannot account for his having been beaten in the Pun-ic war.
THE LIGHT OF ALL NATIONS.
The public are aware that this important national undertaking, which is now about to be commenced, is to be a prodigious cast-iron light-house on the Goodwin Sands. Peter Borthwick and our Sibby are already candidates for the office of universal illuminators. Peter rests his claims chiefly on the brilliancy of his ideas, as exemplified in his plan for lighting the metropolis with bottled moonshine; while Sib. proudly refers to our columns for imperishable evidences of the intensity of his wit, conscious that these alone would entitle him to be called “the light of all nations.” We trust that Sir Robert Peel will exercise a sound discretion in bestowing this important situation. Highly as we esteem Peter’s dazzling talents—profoundly as we admire his bottled moonshine scheme—we feel there is no man in the world more worthy of being elevated to the lantern than our refulgent friend Sibthorp.