CORONATION THURSDAY—July 19, 1821.
Being the Third[26] Epistle from Bob Fudge to his Cousin Bob in the Country.
Dear Bob—A sad outlaw at length I'm become,
The Tories despise me; the Whigs glump and gloom,
And scowl as they pass, which is something uncivil,
And the Radicals treat me as I would the devil;
And threaten, the next time I make my appearance,
To scourge me completely, with Christian forbearance.
This threat from a party, who ever would bawl
For liberal discussion, is worst of them all;
As my writings, I'm sure, must be wond'rous offences,
When such men are talking about consequences.
But whether the head of the Noodles appear,
Or Lambton, or Typo, with sword or with spear,
To blunt their sharp edges at once on my nob,
I'm determin'd to write to my own dearest Bob.
The Pedlar's descendant[27] may boast in the field,
And the Earl of the North with reluctancy yield,
While Cartwright an excess of freedom may claim—
Perhaps they're all right, since they all are to blame.
The Radicals want more than reason would crave,
They all would be kings, without ever a slave;
And that, my dear Bob, you know never can be—
And as for the Whigs, they love stones more than me.
I dare not maliciously think of the Tory,
No envy his pudding, the Englishman's glory—
He's in, and he's right, and his place is worth keeping,
No wonder he wishes John still to be sleeping;—
And though from stage coffers his wages be taken,
He'd better be paid than the office forsaken.
Without Kings and Clergy, and Commons and Peers,
Together the people would be by the ears;
Equal rights, equal liberties, who would not brave,
Lest an excess of Freedom prove Liberty's grave.
We've the use of our fingers, our tongues, and our eyes,
How then are we fetter'd? the good Tory cries;
And as for the taxes, Judge Bayley can prove
They're the source of our welfare, the things we should love.
Since the days of king Solomon, that wise man of yore,
All kings have had wisdom and riches in store:
And Britain, sublimely renowned in story,
Has become of the world th' admiration and glory,
By the help of our kings, and prime minister Pitt,
Whose names are a match for the Radicals yet.
But stop—to amuse thee I'll give a relation
Of the sights I beheld at the King's Coronation;
Which partly convinc'd me that infidels reign,
Since the head of the church met such hoggish disdain.
The morning was fine when the boats came in sight,
And cannons re-echoed the Tories' delight—
Sandgate heroes huzza'd, till the news, so provoking,
Convinc'd them the watermen only were joking.
"What a d—n'd shame! (cried Archy) such prizes, and never
"A man lying breathless, or drown'd in the river!
"No squabbling, no fighting, no boats sunk—damnation!
"They're fit men to row at a King's Coronation!"
Then from the Quayside to the Sandhill I wander'd,
And smil'd to behold money foolishly squander'd:
A pant rising splendidly, gilded and crown'd,
To run with good wine, in the centre was found,
And fronting St. Nicholas a black roasted beast,
And another in Spital-field, bespoke a grand feast.
Three pants to run ale—'twas a glorious sight!
Two cranes and two scaffolds—the butchers' delight.