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.

AND is there then no earthly place

THOMAS MOORE,

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.

ON 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 had n'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.

With NAP if Russia went to war,

'T was owing, under Providence, To certain hints Ned gave the Czar— (Vide his pamphlet-price six pence).

If France was beat at Waterloo

As all, but Frenchmen, think she was-To Ned, as Wellington well knew,

Was owing half that day's applause.

Then for his news-no envoy's bag

E'er pass'd so many secrets through itScarcely a telegraph could wag

Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it.

Such tales he had of foreign plots,

With foreign names one's ear to buzz in

From Russia chefs and ofs in lots,

From Poland owskis by the dozen.

When GEORGE, alarm'd for England's creed,
Turn'd out the last Whig ministry,
And men ask'd-who advised the deed?
Ned modestly confess'd 't was he.

For though, by some unlucky miss,

He had not downright seen the King, He sent such hints through Viscount This, To Marquis That, as clench'd the thing.

The same it was in science, arts,

The drama, books, MS. and printed— Kean learn'd from Ned his cleverest parts, And Scott's last work by him was hinted.

Childe Harold in the proofs he read,

And, here and there, infused some soul in 'tNay, Davy's lamp, till seen by Ned,

Had-odd enough—a dangerous hole in 't.

'T was thus, all doing and all knowing,
Wit, statesman, boxer, chemist, singer,
Whatever was the best pie going,

In that Ned-trust him-had his finger.

WHAT a time since I wrote !-I'm a sad naughty girl-
Though, like a tee-totum, I'm all in a twirl,
Yet even (as you wittily say) a tee-totum
Between all its twirls gives a letter to note 'em.
But, Lord, such a place! and then, Dolly, my dresses,
My gowns, so divine !--there's no language expresses,
Except just the two words "superbe," "magnifique,”
The trimmings of that which I had home last week!
It is call'd—I forget-à la—something which sounded
Like alicampane-but, in truth, I'm confounded
And bother'd, my dear, 'twixt that troublesome boy's
(Bob's) cookery language, and Madame Le Roi's:
What with fillets of roses, and fillets of veal,
Things garni with lace, and things garni with eel,
One's hair, and one's cutlets both en papillote,
And a thousand more things I shall ne'er have by rote,
I can scarce tell the difference, at least as to phrase,
Between beef à la Psyché and curls à la braise.—
But, in short, dear, I'm trick'd out quite à la Française,
With my bonnet-so beautiful!-high up and poking,
Like things that are put to keep chimneys from smoking.

Where shall I begin with the endless delights
Of this Eden of milliners, monkeys, and sights-
This dear busy place, where there's nothing transacting,
But dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting?

Imprimis, the Opera-mercy, my ears!

Brother Bobby's remark t' other night was a true one; "This must be the music," said he, "of the spears,

For I'm curst if each note of it does n't run through one!”

Pa says (and you know, love, his book 's to make out),
'T was the Jacobins brought every mischief about;
That this passion for roaring has come in of late,
Since the rabble all tried for a voice in the State.
What a frightful idea, one's mind to o'erwhelm!

What a chorus, dear Dolly, would soon be let loose of it! If, when of age, every man in the realm

Had a voice like old Laïs, and chose to make use of it! No-never was known in this riotous sphere Such a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear; So bad, too, you'd swear that the god of both arts, Of Music and Physic, had taken a frolic

For setting a loud fit of asthma in parts,

And composing a fine rumbling base to a cholic!

But, the dancing-ah parlez moi, Dolly, de ça-
There, indeed, is a treat that charms all but Papa.
Such beauty—such grace-oh ye sylphs of romance !
Fly, fly to Titania, and ask her if she has
One light-footed nymph in her train, that can dance
Like divine Bigottini and sweet Fanny Bias!
Fanny Bias in Flora-dear creature!-you'd swear,
When her delicate feet in the dance twinkle round,
That her steps are of light, that her home is the air,
And she only par complaisance touches the ground.
And when Bigottini in Psyche dishevels

Her black flowing hair, and by demons is driven,

Oh! who does not envy those rude little devils,

That hold her, and hug her, and keep her from heaven? Then, the music-so softly its cadences die,

So divinely-oh, Dolly! between you and I,
It's as well for my peace that there's nobody nigh
To make love to me then-you've a soul, and can judge
What a crisis 't would be for your friend Biddy Fudge!

The next place (which Bobby has near lost his heart in),
They call it the Play-house-I think-of Saint Martin:.
Quite charming—and very religious-what folly
To say that the French are not pious, dear Dolly,
When here one beholds, so correctly and rightly,
The Testament turn'd into melo-drames nightly: