The alarm thus given, by these and other
Grave ladies of the Nursery side,
Spread through the land, till, such a pother
Such party squabbles, far and wide,
Never in history's page had been
Recorded, as were then between
The Whippers and Non-whippers seen.
Till, things arriving at a state
Which gave some fears of revolution,
The patriot lords' advice, though late,
Was put at last in execution.
The Parliament of Thibet met—
The little Lama call'd before it,
Did, then and there, his whipping get,And (as the Nursery Gazette
Assures us) like a hero bore it.
And though 'mong Thibet Tories, some
Lament that Royal MartyrDom
(Please to observe, the letter D
In this last word's pronounced like B),
Yet to the example of that Prince
So much is Thibet's land a debtor,
'Tis said her little Lamas since
Have all behaved themselves MUCH better.
ETERNAL LONDON. THOMAS MOORE.
And is there then no earthly place
Where we can rest, in dream Elysian,
Without some cursed, round English face,
Popping up near, to break the vision!
'Mid northern lakes, 'mid southern vines,
Unholy cits we're doom'd to meet;
Nor highest Alps nor Appenines
Are sacred from Threadneedle-street.
If up the Simplon's path we wind,
Fancying we leave this world behind,
Such pleasant sounds salute one's ear
As—"Baddish news from 'Change, my dear—
The Funds—(phew, curse this ugly hill!)
Are lowering fast—(what! higher still?)—
And—(zooks, we're mounting up to Heaven!)—
Will soon be down to sixty-seven,"
Go where we may—rest where we will,
Eternal London haunts us still,
The trash of Almack's or Fleet-Ditch—
And scarce a pin's head difference WHICH—
Mixes, though even to Greece we run,
With every rill from Helicon!
And if this rage for traveling lasts,
If Cockneys of all sets and castes,
Old maidens, aldermen, and squires,
WILL leave their puddings and coal fires,
To gape at things in foreign lands
No soul among them understands—
If Blues desert their coteries,
To show off 'mong the Wahabees—-
If neither sex nor age controls,
Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids
Young ladies, with pink parasols,
To glide among the Pyramids—
Why, then, farewell all hope to find
A spot that's free from London-kind!
Who knows, if to the West we roam,
But we may find some Blue "at home"
Among the BLACKS of Carolina—
Or, flying to the eastward, see
Some Mrs. HOPKINS, taking tea
And toast upon the Wall of China.
OF FACTOTUM NED. THOMAS MOORE.
Here lies Factotum Ned at last:
Long as he breath'd the vital air,
Nothing throughout all Europe pass'd
In which he hadn't some small share.
Whoe'er was IN, whoe'er was OUT—
Whatever statesmen did or said—
If not exactly brought about,
Was all, at least, contrived by Ned.