Canonize him!—yea, verily, we'll canonize him,
Tho' Cant is his hobby and meddling his bliss,
Tho' sages may pity and wits may despise him,
He'll ne'er make a bit the worse Saint for all this.
Descend, all ye Spirits, that ever yet spread
The dominion of Humbug o'er land and o'er sea,
Descend on our Butterworth's biblical head,
Thrice-Great, Bibliopolist, Saint, and M. P.
Come, shade of Joanna, come down from thy sphere.
And bring little Shiloh—if 'tisn't too far—
Such a sight will to Butterworth's bosom be dear,
His conceptions and thine being much on a par.
Nor blush, Saint Joanna, once more to behold
A world thou hast honored by cheating so many;
Thou'lt find still among us one Personage old,
Who also by tricks and the Seals[1] makes a penny.
Thou, too, of the Shakers, divine Mother Lee![2]
Thy smiles to beatified Butterworth deign;
Two "lights of the Gentiles" are thou, Anne, and he,
One hallowing Fleet Street, and t'other Toad Lane![3]
The heathen, we know, made their Gods out of wood,
And Saints may be framed of as handy materials;—
Old women and Butterworths make just as good
As any the Pope ever bookt as Ethereals.
Stand forth, Man of Bibles!—not Mahomet's pigeon,
When perched on the Koran, he dropt there, they say,
Strong marks of his faith, ever shed o'er religion
Such glory as Butterworth sheds every day.
Great Galen of souls, with what vigor he crams
Down Erin's idolatrous throats, till they crack again,
Bolus on bolus, good man!—and then damns
Both their stomachs and souls, if they dare cast them back again.
How well might his shop—as a type representing
The creed of himself and his sanctified clan—
On its counter exhibit "the Art of Tormenting,"
Bound neatly, and lettered "Whole Duty of Man!"
Canonize him!—by Judas, we will canonize him;
For Cant is his hobby and twaddling his bliss;
And tho' wise men may pity and wits may despise him,
He'll make but the better shop-saint for all this.