I waked—and prayed, with lifted hand,
"Oh! never may this Dream prove true;
"Tho' paper overwhelms the land,
"Let it not crush the Sovereign, too!"
PARODY OF A CELEBRATED LETTER.[1]
At length, dearest Freddy, the moment is night
When, with Perceval's leave, I may throw my chains by;
And, as time now is precious, the first thing I do
Is to sit down and write a wise letter to you.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I meant before now to have sent you this Letter, But Yarmouth and I thought perhaps 'twould be better To wait till the Irish affairs are decided— (That is, till both Houses had prosed and divided, With all due appearance of thought and digestion)— For, tho' Hertford House had long settled the question, I thought it but decent, between me and you, That the two other Houses should settle it too.
I need not remind you how cursedly bad
Our affairs were all looking, when Father went mad;[2]
A strait waistcoat on him and restrictions on me,
A more limited Monarchy could not well be.
I was called upon then, in that moment of puzzle.
To choose my own Minister—just as they muzzle
A playful young bear, and then mock his disaster
By bidding him choose out his own dancing-master.
I thought the best way, as a dutiful son,
Was to do as Old Royalty's self would have done.[3]
So I sent word to say, I would keep the whole batch in,
The same chest of tools, without cleansing or patching:
For tools of this kind, like Martinus's sconce.[4]
Would loose all their beauty if purified once;
And think—only think—if our Father should find.
Upon graciously coming again to his mind,[5]
That improvement had spoiled any favorite adviser—
That Rose was grown honest, or Westmoreland wiser—
That R—d—r was, even by one twinkle, the brighter—
Or Liverpool speeches but half a pound lighter—
What a shock to his old royal heart it would be!
No!—far were such dreams of improvement from me:
And it pleased me to find, at the House, where, you know,[6]
There's such good mutton cutlets, and strong curaçoa,[7]
That the Marchioness called me a duteous old boy,
And my Yarmouth's red whiskers grew redder for joy.
You know, my dear Freddy, how oft, if I would,
By the law of last sessions I might have done good.
I might have withheld these political noodles
From knocking their heads against hot Yankee Doodles;
I might have told Ireland I pitied her lot,
Might have soothed her with hope—but you know I did not.
And my wish is, in truth, that the best of old fellows
Should not, on recovering, have cause to be jealous,
But find that while he has been laid on the shelf
We've been all of us nearly as mad as himself.
You smile at my hopes—but the Doctors and I
Are the last that can think the King ever will die.[8]
A new era's arrived[9]—tho' you'd hardly believe it—
And all things of course must be new to receive it.
New villas, new fêtes (which even Waithman attends)—
New saddles, new helmets, and—why not new friends?
* * * * *