So may my Lady's prayers prevail,
And Canning's too, and lucid Bragge's,
And Eldon beg a favoring gale
From Eolus, that older Bags,
To speed thee on thy destined way,
Oh ship, that bearest our Castlereagh,
Our gracious Regent's better half
And therefore quarter of a King—
(As Van or any other calf
May find without much figuring).
Waft him, oh ye kindly breezes,
Waft this Lord of place and pelf,
Any where his Lordship pleases,
Tho' 'twere to Old Nick himself!
Oh, what a face of brass was his.
Who first at Congress showed his phiz—
To sign away the Rights of Man
To Russian threats and Austrian juggle;
And leave the sinking African
To fall without one saving struggle—
'Mong ministers from North and South,
To show his lack of shame and sense,
And hoist the sign of "Bull and Mouth"
For blunders and for eloquence!
In vain we wish our Secs, at home
To mind their papers, desks, and shelves,
If silly Secs, abroad will roam
And make such noodles of themselves.
But such hath always been the case—
For matchless impudence of face,
There's nothing like your Tory race!
First, Pitt, the chosen of England, taught her
A taste for famine, fire and slaughter.
Then came the Doctor, for our ease,
With Eldons, Chathams, Hawksburies,
And other deadly maladies.
When each in turn had run their rigs,
Necessity brought in the Whigs:
And oh! I blush, I blush to say,
When these, in turn, were put to flight, too,
Illustrious TEMPLE flew away
With lots of pens he had no right to.[1]
In short, what will not mortal man do?
And now, that—strife and bloodshed past—
We've done on earth what harm we can do,
We gravely take to heaven at last
And think its favoring smile to purchase
(Oh Lord, good Lord!) by—building churches!
[1] This alludes to the 1200_l_. worth of stationery, which his Lordship is said to have ordered, when on the point of vacating his place.
SKETCH OF THE FIRST ACT OF A NEW ROMANTIC DRAMA.
"And now," quoth the goddess, in accents jocose,
"Having got good materials, I'll brew such a dose
"Of Double X mischief as, mortals shall say,
"They've not known its equal for many a long day."
Here she winkt to her subaltern imps to be steady,
And all wagged their fire-tipt tails and stood ready.
"So, now for the ingredients:—first, hand me that bishop;"
Whereupon, a whole bevy of imps run to fish up
From out a large reservoir wherein they pen 'em
The blackest of all its black dabblers in venom;
And wrapping him up (lest the virus should ooze,
And one "drop of the immortal"[1] Right Rev.[2] they might lose)
In the sheets of his own speeches, charges, reviews,
Pop him into the caldron, while loudly a burst
From the by-standers welcomes ingredient the first!
"Now fetch the Ex-Chancellor," muttered the dame—
"He who's called after Harry the Older, by name."
"The Ex-Chancellor!" echoed her imps, the whole crew of 'em—
"Why talk of one Ex, when your Mischief has two of 'em?"
"True, true," said the hag, looking arch at her elves,
"And a double-Ex dose they compose, in themselves."
This joke, the sly meaning of which was seen lucidly,
Set all the devils a laughing most deucedly.
So, in went the pair, and (what none thought surprising)
Showed talents for sinking as great as for rising;
While not a grim phiz in that realm but was lighted
With joy to see spirits so twin-like united—
Or (plainly to speak) two such birds of a feather,
In one mess of venom thus spitted together.
Here a flashy imp rose—some connection, no doubt,
Of the young lord in question—and, scowling about,
"Hoped his fiery friend, Stanley, would not be left out;
"As no schoolboy unwhipt, the whole world must agree,
"Loved mischief, pure mischief, more dearly than he."