Or if she kick, let it console us,
We still have plenty of red coats,
To cram the Church, that general bolus,
Down any given amount of throats.
I dearly love the Frankfort Diet,—
Think newspapers the worst of crimes;
And would, to give some chance of quiet,
Hang all the writers of "The Times;"
Break all their correspondents' bones,
All authors of "Reply," "Rejoinder,"
From the Anti-Tory, Colonel Jones,
To the Anti-Suttee, Mr. Poynder.
Such are the Pledges I propose;
And tho' I can't now offer gold,
There's many a way of buying those
Who've but the taste for being sold.
So here's, with three times three hurrahs,
A toast of which you'll not complain,—
"Long life to jobbing; may the days
"Of Peculation shine again!"
ST. JEROME ON EARTH.
FIRST VISIT.
1832.
As St. Jerome who died some ages ago,
Was sitting one day in the shades below,
"I've heard much of English bishops," quoth he,
"And shall now take a trip to earth to see
"How far they agree in their lives and ways
"With our good old bishops of ancient days."
He had learned—but learned without misgivings—
Their love for good living and eke good livings;
Not knowing (as ne'er having taken degrees)
That good living means claret and fricassees,
While its plural means simply—pluralities.