WRITE ON, WRITE ON.

A BALLAD.

Air.- Sleep on, sleep on, my Kathleen dear." Salvete, fratres Asini.-ST. FRANCIS.

WRITE on, write on, ye Barons dear,

Ye Dukes, write hard and fast; The good we've sought for many a year Your quills will bring at last. One letter more, Newcastle, pen

To match Lord Kenyon's two,

And more than Ireland's host of men,
One brace of Peers will do.

Write on, write on, &c.

Sure, never, since the precious use
Of pen and ink began,

Did letters, writ by fools, produce

Such signal good to man.
While intellect, 'mong high and low,
Is marching on, they say,

Give me the Dukes and Lords, who go,
Like crabs, the other way.

Write on, write on, &c.

Even now I feel the coming light—
Even now, could Folly lure
My Lord Mountcashel, too, to write,
Emancipation's sure.

By geese (we read in history)

Old Rome was saved from ill;

And now, to quills of geese, we see Old Rome indebted still.

Write on, write on, &c.

Write, write, ye Peers, nor stoop to style,
Nor beat for sense about-
Things, little worth a Noble's while,

You're better far without.

Oh ne'er, since asses spoke of yore,
Such miracles were done;

For, write but four such letters more,
And Freedom's cause is won!

SONG OF THE DEPARTING SPIRIT OF TITHE

The parting Genius is with sighing sent."-MILTON.

It is o'er, it is c'er, my reign is o'er;
I hear a Voice, from shore to shore,
From Dunfanaghy to Baltimore,

And it saith, in sad, parsonic tone,

"Great Tithe and Small are dead and gone!"

Even now, I behold your vanishing wings,
Ye Tenths of all conceivable things,
Which Adam first, as Doctors deem,
Saw, in a sort of night-mare dream,"
After the feast of fruit abhorr'd-
First indigestion on record!-
Ye decimate ducks, ye chosen chicks,
Ye pigs which, though ye be Catholics,
Or of Calvin's most select depraved,

In the Church must have your bacon saved ;Ye fields, where Labor counts his sheaves, And, whatsoe'er himself believes,

116

Must bow to th' Establish'd Church belief,
That the tenth is always a Protestant sheaf;-
Ye calves, of which the man of Heaven
Takes Irish tithe, one calf in seven ;115
Ye tenths of rape, hemp, barley, flax,
Eggs, timber, milk, fish, and bees' wax;
All things, in short, since earth's creation,
Doom'd, by the Church's dispensation,
To suffer eternal decimation-
Leaving the whole lay-world, since then,
Reduced to nine parts out of ten;

Or as we calculate thefts and arsons-
Just ten per cent, the worse for Parsons!

Alas, and is all this wise device

For the saving of souls thus gone in a trice?—
The whole put down, in the simplest way,
By the souls resolving not to pay!

And even the Papists, thankless race,
Who have had so much the easiest case-
To
pay
for our sermons doom'd, 'tis true,
But not condemn'd to hear them, too—
(Our holy business being, 'tis known,
With the ears of their barley, not their own,)
Even they object to let us pillage,

By right divine, their tenth of tillage,
And, horror of horrors, even decline
To find us in sacramental wine!"

It is o'er, it is o'er, my reign is o'er,
Ah, never shall rosy Rector more,
Like the shepherds of Israel, idly eat,
And make of his flock "a prey and meat."
No more shall be his pastoral sport
Of suing his flock in the Bishop's Court,
Through various steps, Citation, Libel-
Scriptures all, but not the Bible;
Working the Law's whole apparatus,
To get a few pre-doom'd potatoes,

And summoning all the powers of wig,
To settle the fraction of a pig!—
Till, parson and all committed deep
In the case of" Shepherds versus Sheep,"
The law usurps the Gospel's place,
And, on Sundays, meeting face to face,
While Plaintiff fills the preacher's station,
Defendants form the congregation.

So lives he, Mammon's priest, not Heaven's,
For tenths thus all at sixes and sevens,
Seeking what parsons love no less
Than tragic poets—a good distress.
Instead of studying St. Augustin,
Gregory Nyss., or old St. Justin,
(Books fit only to hoard dust in,)
His reverence stints his evening readings
To learn'd Reports of Tithe Proceedings,
Sipping, the while, that port so ruddy,
Which forms his only ancient study;—
Port so old, you'd swear its tartar
Was of the age of Justin Martyr,
And, had he sipp'd of such, no doubt

His martyrdom would have been-to gout.

Is all then lost?-alas, too true

Ye Tenths beloved, adieu, adieu !
My reign is o'er, my reign is o'er-
Like old Thumb's ghost, "I can no more."

Ude tells us, the fish little suffering feels;

While Papists, of late, have more sensitive grown; So, take my advice, try your hand at live eels, And, for once, let the other poor devils alone.

I have even a still better receipt for your cookHow to make a goose die of confirm'd hepatitis;121 And, if you'll, for once, fellow-feelings o'erlook,

A well-tortured goose a most capital sight is.

First, catch him, alive—make a good steady fire—
Set your victim before it, both legs being tied,
(As, if left to himself, he might wish to retire,)
And place a large bowl of rich cream by his side.

There roasting by inches, dry, fever'd, and faint, Having drunk all the cream, you so civilly laid, off,

He dies of as charming a liver complaint

As ever sleek parson could wish a pie made of.

Besides, only think, my dear one of Sixteen,

What an emblem this bird, for the epicure's use meant,

Presents of the mode in which Ireland has been Made a tit-bit for yours and your brethren's amusement:

A CURIOUS FACT.

THE present Lord Kenyon (the Peer who writes letters,

For which the waste-paper folks much are his debtors)

Hath one little oddity, well worth reciting,
Which puzzleth observers, even more than his wri-
ting.

Whenever Lord Kenyon doth chance to behold
A cold Apple-pie-mind, the pie must be cold-
His Lordship looks solemn, (few people know why,)
And he makes a low bow to the said apple-pie.

This idolatrous act, in so "vital" a Peer, Is, by most serious Protestants, thought rather queer

Pie-worship, they hold, coming under the head (Vide Crustium, chap. iv.) of the Worship of Bread. Some think 'tis a tribute, as author, he owes For the service that pie-crust hath done to his prose ;

The only good things in his pages, they swear, Being those that the pastry-cook sometimes puts there.

Others say, 'tis a homage, through pie-crust convey'd,

Was as fond of cold pie as he was of green peas,'
And 'tis solely in loyal remembrance of that,
My Lord Kenyon to apple-pie takes off his hat.
While others account for this kind salutation
By what Tony Lumpkin calls "concatenation ;”—
A certain good-will that, from sympathy's ties,
"Twixt old Apple-women and Orange-men lies.

123

But 'tis needless to add, these are all vague sur

mises,

For thus, we're assured, the whole matter arises:
Lord Kenyon's respected old father (like many
Respected old fathers) was fond of a penny;
And loved so to save,"
124 that-there's not the least

question

His death was brought on by a bad indigestion, From cold apple-pie-crust his Lordship would stuff

in,

At breakfast, to save the expense of hot muffin.

Hence it is, and hence only, that cold apple-pies
Are beheld by his Heir with such reverent eyes-
Just as honest King Stephen his beaver might doff
To the fishes that carried his kind uncle off-
And while filial piety urges so many on,
"Tis pure apple-pie-ety moves my Lord Kenyon.

Sir,

NEW-FASHIONED ECHOES.

Most of your readers are, no doubt, acquainted with the anecdote told of a certain, not over-wise, judge, who, when in the act of delivering a charge in some country court-house, was interrupted by the braying of an ass at the door. "What noise is that?" asked the angry judge. "Only an extraordinary echo there is in court, my Lord," answered one of the counsel.

As there are a number of such "extraordinary echoes" abroad just now, you will not, perhaps, be unwilling, Mr. Editor, to receive the following few lines suggested by them, Yours, &c.

I might track, through each hard Irish name,
The rebounds of this asinine strain,
Till from Neddy to Neddy, it came

To the chief Neddy, Kenyon, again;

Might tell how it roar'd in Rathdoune,
How from Dawson it died off genteelly-
How hollow it rung from the crown
Of the fat-pated Marquis of Ely;

How, on hearing my Lord of G-e, Thistle-eaters, the stoutest, gave way, Outdone, in their own special line,

By the forty-ass power of his bray!

But, no-for so humble a bard

"Tis a subject too trying to touch on;. Such noblemen's names are too hard,

And their noddles too soft to dwell much on.

Oh Echo, sweet nymph of the hill,

Of the dell, and the deep-sounding shelves;

If, in spite of Narcissus, you still

Take to fools who are charm'd with themselves,

Who knows but, some morning retiring,

To walk by the Trent's wooded side, You may meet with Newcastle, admiring His own lengthen'd ears in the tide!

Or, on into Cambria straying,
Find Kenyon, that doubled-tongued elf,
In his love of ass-cendency, braying
A Brunswick duet with himself!

INCANTATION.

FROM THE NEW TRAGEDY OF "THE BRUNSWICKERS,"

18299 SCENE.-Penenden Plain. In the middle, a caldron boiling. Thunder.-Enter Three Brunswickers.

1st Bruns.-THRICE hath scribbling Kenyon scrawl'd,

2d Bruns. Once hath fool Newcastle bawl'd, 3d Bruns. Bexley snores:- -'tis time, 'tis time, 1st Bruns.-Round about the caldron go; In the poisonous nonsense throw. Bigot spite, that long hath grown, Like a toad within a stone, Sweltering in the heart of Scott, Boil we in the Brunswick pot

All.-Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble, Eldon, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.

2d Bruns.-Slaver from Newcastle's quill In the noisome mess distil, Brimming high our Brunswick broth Both with venom and with froth. Mix the brains (though apt to hash ill, Being scant) of Lord Mountcashel, With that malty stuff which Chandos Drivels as no other man does. Catch (i. e. if catch you can) One idea, spick and span, From my Lord of Salisbury,— One idea, though it be

128

Smaller than the "happy flea,"
Which his sire, in sonnet terse,
Wedded to immortal verse.'
Though to rob the son is sin,
Put his one idea in;

And, to keep it company,
Let that conjuror Winchelsea
Drop but half another there,
If he hath so much to spare.
Dreams of murders and of arsons,
Hatch'd in heads of Irish parsons,
Bring from every hole and corner,
Where ferocious priests, like Horner,
Purely for religious good,

Cry aloud for Papist's blood,

Blood for Wells, and such old women,
At their ease to wade and swim in.

All.-Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,
Bexley, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.

3d Bruns. Now the charm begins to brew; Sisters, sisters, add thereto

Scraps of Lethbridge's old speeches,
Mix'd with leather from his breeches.
Rinsings of old Bexley's brains,
Thicken'd (if you'll take the pains)
With that pulp which rags create,
In their middle, nympha state,
Ere, like insects frail and sunny,
Forth they wing abroad as money.
There the Hell-broth we've enchanted-
Now but one thing more is wanted.
Squeeze o'er all that Orange juice,
Cumberland keeps cork'd for use,
Which, to work the better spell, is
Color'd deep with blood of Sellis,
Blood, of powers far more various,
Even than that of Januarius, -
Since so great a charm hangs o'er it,
England's parsons bow before it!

All.-Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,
Bexley, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.

2d Bruns.-Cool it now with Sellis' blood, So the charm is firm and good. [Exeunt.

HOW TO MAKE A GOOD POLITICIAN.

WHENE'ER you're in doubt, said a Sage I once knew,
"Twixt two lines of conduct which course to pursue,
Ask a woman's advice, and, whate'er she advise,
Do the very reverse, and you're sure to be wise.

Of the same use as guides, are the Brunswicker throng;

In their thoughts, words, and deeds, so instinctively

wrong,

That, whatever they counsel, act, talk, or indite, Take the opposite course, and you're sure to be

right.

So golden this rule, that, had nature denied you The use of that finger-post, Reason, to guide you— Were you even more doltish than any given man is, More soft than Newcastle, more twaddling than

Van is,

I'd stake my repute, on the following conditions, To make you the soundest of sound politicians.

Place yourself near the skirts of some high-flying Tory

Some Brunswicker parson, of port-drinking glory, Watch well how he dines, during any great Ques

tion

What makes him feed gayly, what spoils his diges

tion

And always feel sure that his joy o'er a stew
Portends a clear case of dyspepsia to you.
Read him backwards, like Hebrew-whatever he
wishes,

Or praises, note down as absurd, or pernicious.
Like the folks of a weather-house, shifting about,
When he's out, be an In-when he's in, be an Out.
Keep him always reversed in your thoughts, night

and day,

Like an Irish barometer turn'd the wrong way:-
If he's up, you may swear that foul weather is nigh;
If he's down, you may look for a bit of blue sky.
Never mind what debaters or journalists say,
Only ask what he thinks, and then think t'other way.
Does he hate the Small-note Bill? then firmly rely
The Small-note Bill's a blessing, though you don't

know why,

Is Brougham his aversion? then Harry's your man Does he quake at O'Connell? take doubly to Dan,