CAPTAIN ROCK IN LONDON.

LETTER FROM THE CAPTAIN TO TERRY ALT, ESQ.

*

HERE I am, at head-quarters, dear Terry, once more, Deep in Tory designs, as I've oft been before:For, bless them! if 'twasn't for this wrong-headed

crew,

You and I, Terry Alt, would scarce know what to

do;

So ready they're always, when dull we are growing, To set our old concert of discord a-going,

While L-ndh-t's the lad, with his Tory-Whig face, To play, in such concert, the true double-base.

I had fear'd this old prop of my realm was beginning To tire of his course of political sinning,

And, like Mother Cole, when her heyday was past, Meant, by way of a change, to try virtue at last. But I wrong'd the old boy, who as staunchly derides All reform in himself as in most things besides;

* The subordinate officer or lieutenant of Captain Rock.

And, by using two faces through life, all allow,
Has acquir'd face sufficient for any thing now.

In short, he's all right; and, if mankind's old foe, My "Lord Harry" himself-who's the leader, we know,

Of another red-hot Opposition, below

If that "Lord," in his well-known discernment, but

spares

Me and L-ndh-t, to look after Ireland's affairs, We shall soon such a region of devilment make it, That Old Nick himself for his own may mistake it.

Ev'n already-long life to such Big-wigs, say I,
For, as long as they flourish, we Rocks cannot die-
He has serv'd our right riotous cause by a speech
Whose perfection of mischief he only could reach;
As it shows off both his and my merits alike,
Both the swell of the wig, and the point of the pike;
Mixes up, with a skill which one can't but admire,
The lawyer's cool craft with the' incendiary's fire,
And enlists, in the gravest, most plausible manner,
Seven millions of souls under Rockery's banner!

Oh Terry, my man, let this speech never die;
Through the regions of Rockland, like flame, let it fly;
Let each syllable dark the Law-Oracle utter'd
By all Tipperary's wild echoes be mutter'd,

Till nought shall be heard, over hill, dale, or flood, But "You're aliens in language, in creed, and in blood;"

While voices, from sweet Connemara afar,

Shall answer, like true Irish echoes, “We are!"

And, though false be the cry, and though sense must abhor it,

Still the' echoes may quote Law authority for it, And nought L-ndh-t cares for my spread of dominion

So he, in the end; touches cash "for the' opinion."

But I've no time for more, my dear Terry, just now, Being busy in helping these Lords through their row. They're bad hands at mob-work, but, once they begin,

They'll have plenty of practice to break them well in.

THE FUDGES IN ENGLAND;

BEING

A SEQUEL

TO THE

66 FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS."