AWFUL EVENT.

YES, W―nch—ls- -a (I tremble while I pen it),

W-nch-ls-a's Earl hath cut the British SenateHath said to England's Peers, in accent gruff, "That for ye all" [snapping his fingers], and exit, in a huff!

Disastrous news!—like that, of old, which spread From shore to shore, "our mighty Pan is dead," O'er the cross benches (cross from being crost) Sounds the loud wail," Our W―nch-ls

Is-a is lost!"

Which of ye, Lords, that heard him, can forget
The deep impression of that awful threat,

"I quit your house!!"-'midst all that histories

tell,

I know but one event that's parallel :·

:-

It chanc'd at Drury Lane, one Easter night,
When the gay gods, too blest to be polite,

Gods at their ease, like those of learn'd Lucretius, Laugh'd, whistled, groan'd, uproariously facetious— A well-dress'd member of the middle gallery, Whose " ears polite" disdain'd such low canaillerie, Rose in his place-so grand, you'd almost swear Lord W-nch-Is-a himself stood towering thereAnd like that Lord of dignity and nous,

Said, "Silence, fellows, or—I'll leave the house!!"

How brook'd the gods this speech? Ah well-a-day,
That speech so fine should be so thrown away!
In vain did this mid-gallery grandee

Assert his own two-shilling dignity

In vain he menac'd to withdraw the ray
Of his own full-price countenance away —

Fun against Dignity is fearful odds,

And as the Lords laugh now, so giggled then the

gods!

THE NUMBERING OF THE CLERGY.

PARODY ON SIR CHARLES HAN. WILLIAMS'S

FAMOUS ODE,

66

COME, CLOE, AND GIVE ME SWEET KISSES.

"We want more Churches and more Clergymen."

Bishop of London's late Charge.

"Rectorum numerum, terris pereuntibus, augent."

Claudian in Eutrop.

COME, give us more Livings and Rectors,
For, richer no realm ever gave;

But why, ye unchristian objectors,

Do

ye ask us how many we crave?*

Oh, there can't be too many rich Livings
For souls of the Pluralist kind,

* Come, Cloe, and give me sweet kisses,
For sweeter sure never girl gave;
But why, in the midst of my blisses,
Do you ask me how many I'd have?

Who, despising old Cocker's misgivings,

To numbers can ne'er be confin'd.*

Count the cormorants hovering about†, At the time their fish season sets in, When these models of keen diners-out Are preparing their beaks to begin.

Count the rooks that, in clerical dresses, Flock round when the harvest's in play, And, not minding the farmer's distresses, Like devils in grain peck away.

Go, number the locusts in heaven ‡,
On their way to some titheable shore;
And when so many Parsons you've given,
We still shall be craving for more.

For whilst I love thee above measure,
To numbers I'll ne'er be confin'd.

Count the bees that on Hybla are playing,
Count the flowers that enamel its fields,
Count the flocks, &c.

Count how many sands on the shore;

When so many kisses you've given,

I still shall be craving for more.

Then, unless ye the Church would submerge, ye

Must leave us in peace to augment

For the wretch who could number the Clergy,

With few will be ever content.*

But the wretch who can number his kisses,
With few will be ever content.