COPY OF AN INTERCEPTED DISPATCH.

FROM HIS EXCELLENCY DON STREPITOSO DIABOLO, ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY TO HIS SATANIC MAJESTY.

St. James's Street, July 1, 1826. GREAT Sir, having just had the good luck to catch An official young Demon, preparing to go, Ready booted and spurr'd, with a black-leg dispatch, From the Hell here, at Crockford's, to our Hell, below

I write these few lines to your Highness Satanic, To say that, first having obey'd your directions, And done all the mischief I could in "the Panic," My next special care was to help the Elections.

Such then were my hopes; but, with sorrow, your Highness,

I'm forced to confess-be the cause what it will, Whether fewness of voices, or hoarseness, or shy

ness,

Our Beelzebub chorus has gone off but ill.

The truth is, no placeman now knows his right key,
The Treasury pitch-pipe of late is so various;
And certain base voices, that look'd for a fee
At the York music-meeting, now think it pre-
carious.

Even some of our Reverends might have been

warmer,

Tenths of all dead and living things,
That Nature into being brings,
From calves and corn to chitterlings.

Say, holy Hat, that hast, of cocks,
The very cock most orthodox,
To which, of all the well-fed throng
Of Zion,34 joy'st thou to belong?
Thou'rt not Sir Harcourt Lees's-no-

For hats grow like the heads that wear 'em; And hats, on heads like his, would grow

Particularly harum-scarum.

Who knows but thou may'st deck the pate
Of that famed Doctor Adamthwaite,
(The reverend rat, whom we saw stand
On his hind-legs in Westmoreland,)
Who changed so quick from blue to yellow,
And would from yellow back to blue,
And back again, convenient fellow,
If 'twere his interest so to do.

Or, haply, smartest of triangles,

Thou art the hat of Doctor Owen; The hat that, to his vestry wrangles, That venerable priest doth go in,And, then and there, amid the stare Of all St. Olave's, takes the chair, And quotes, with phiz right orthodox

Th' example of his reverend brothers, To prove that priests all fleece their flocks, And he must fleece as well as others.

Bless'd Hat! (whoe'er thy lord may be)
Thus low I take off mine to thee,
The homage of a layman's castor,
To the spruce delta of his pastor.

Oh mayst thou be, as thou proceedest,

Still smarter cock'd, still brush'd the brighter Till, bowing all the way, thou leadest Thy sleek possessor to a mitre!

NEWS FOR COUNTRY COUSINS.

1826.

DEAR Coz, as I know neither you nor Miss Draper,
When Parliament's up, ever take in a paper,
But trust for your news to such stray odds and ends
As
you chance to pick up from political friends-
Being one of this well-inform'd class, I sit down
To transmit you the last newest news that's in town.

As to Greece and Lord Cochrane, things could'nt look better

His Lordship (who promises now to fight faster)

Has just taken Rhodes, and dispatch'd off a letter
To Daniel O'Connell, to make him Grand Master;
Engaging to change the old name, if he can,
From the Knights of St. John to the Knights of
St. Dan;-

Or, if Dan should prefer (as a still better whim)
Being made the Colossus, 'tis all one to him.

From Russia the last accounts are that the Czar-
Most generous and kind, as all sovereigns are,
And whose first princely act (as you know, I sup-
pose)

For it glimmer'd o'er with a doubtful light,
One could'nt say whether 'twas day or night;
And 'twas cross'd by many a mazy track,
One didn't know how to get on or back;
And I felt like a needle that's going astray
(With its one eye out) through a bundle of hay;
When the Spirit he grinn'd, and whisper'd me,
"Thou'rt now in the Court of Chancery !"

Around me flitted unnumber'd swarms Of shapeless, bodiless, tailless forms; (Like bottled-up babes, that grace the room

Is now busy collecting with brotherly care,

The late Emperor's nightcaps, and thinks of bestowing

One nightcap apiece (if he has them to spare) On all the distinguish'd old ladies now going. (While I write, an arrival from Riga-the "Brothers"

Having nightcaps on board for Lord Eldon and others.)

Last advices from India-Sir Archy, 'tis thought,
Was near catching a Tartar, (the first ever caught
In N. Lat. 21)-and his Highness Burmese,
Being very hard press'd to shell out the rupees,
And not having rhino sufficient, they say, meant
To pawn his august Golden Foot for the payment.
(How lucky for monarchs, that thus, when they
choose,

Can establish a running account with the Jews!)
The security being what Rothschild calls "goot,"
A loan will be shortly, of course, set on foot;
The parties are Rothschild, A. Baring and Co.
With three other great pawnbrokers: each takes a
toe,

And engages (lest Gold-foot should give us leg-bail,
As he did once before) to pay down on the nail.

This is all for the present-what vile pens and paper! Yours truly, dear Cousin-best love to Miss Draper. September, 1826.

A VISION.

BY THE AUTHOR OF CHRISTABEL.

"Up!" said the Spirit, and, ere I could pray
One hasty orison, whirl'd me away
To a Limbo, lying-I wist not where-
Above or below, in earth or air;

All of them, things half-kill'd in rearing;
Some were lame-some wanted hearing;
Some had through half a century run,
Though they hadn't a leg to stand upon.
Others, more merry, as just beginning,
Around on a point of law were spinning;
Or balanced aloft, 'twixt Bill and Answer,
Lead at each end, like a tight-rope dancer.
Some were so cross, that nothing could please 'em ;-
Some gulp'd down affidavits to ease 'em ;-
All were in motion, yet never a one,

I heard a loud screaming of old and young,
Like a chorus by fifty Vellutis sung;
Or an Irish Dump ("the words by Moore")
At an amateur concert scream'd in score;
So harsh on my ear that wailing fell
Of the wretches who in this Limbo dwell!
It seem'd like the dismal symphony
Of the shapes Æneas in hell did see ;
Or those frogs, whose legs a barbarous cook
Cut off, and left the frogs in the brook,
To cry all night, till life's last dregs,
"Give us our legs!-give us our legs!"
Touch'd with the sad and sorrowful scene,
I ask'd what all this yell might mean,
When the Spirit replied, with a grin of glee,
""Tis the cry of the Suitors in Chanc›ry!”

I look'd, and I saw a wizard rise,"
With a wig like a cloud before men's eyes.
In his aged hand he held a wand,
Wherewith he beckon'd his embryo band,
And they moved and moved, as he waved it o'er,
But they never got on one inch the more.
And still they kept limping to and fro.
Like Ariels round old Prospero—
Saying, "Dear Master, let us go,"
But still old Prospero answer'd “No”

And I heard, the while, that wizard elf
Muttering, muttering spells to himself,
While o'er as many old papers he turn'd,
As Hume e'er moved for, or Omar burn'd.
He talk'd of his virtue-"though some, less nice,
(He own'd with a sigh) preferr'd his Vice"-
And he said, "I think"-"I doubt"—"I hope,"
Call'd God to witness, and damn'd the Pope;
With many more sleights of tongue and hand
I couldn't, for the soul of me, understand.
Amazed and posed, I was just about
To ask his name, when the screams without,
The merciless clack of the imps within,
And that conjuror's mutterings, made such a din,
That, startled, I woke—leap'd up in my bed—
Found the Spirit, the imps, and the conjuror fled,
And bless'd my stars, right pleased to see,
That I wasn't, as yet, in Chancery.

THE PETITION OF THE ORANGEMEN OF IRELAND.

1826.

To the people of England, the humble Petition
Of Ireland's disconsolate Orangemen, showing—
That sad, very sad, is our present condition;—
Our jobbing all gone, and our noble selves
going;-

That, forming one seventh, within a few fractions, Of Ireland's seven millions of hot heads and hearts,

We hold it the basest of all base transactions

To keep us from murd'ring the other six parts ;

That, as to laws made for the good of the many,

We humbly suggest there is nothing less true; As all human laws (and our own, more than any) Are made by and for a particular few ;

That much it delights every true Orange brother,
To see you, in England, such ardor evince,
In discussing which sect most tormented the other,
And burn'd with most gusto, some hundred years
since ;-

That we love to behold, while Old England grows faint,

Messrs. Southey and Butler nigh coming to blows, To decide whether Dunstan, that strong-bodied

Saint,

Ever truly and really pull'd the Devil's nose ;