The fund being raised, there remain'd but to see What the dowager-author's gift was to be. And here, I must say, the Sisters Blue Show'd delicate taste and judgment too. For, finding the poor man suffering greatly From the awful stuff he has thrown up lately- So much so, indeed, to the alarm of all, As to bring on a fit of what doctors call The Antipapistico-monomania,
(I'm sorry with such a long word to detain ye,) They've acted the part of a kind physician, By suiting their gift to the patient's condition; And, as soon as 'tis ready for presentation, We shall publish the facts, for the gratification Of this highly-favor'd and Protestant nation.
Meanwhile, to the great alarm of his neighbors, He still continues his Quarterly labors; And often has strong No-Popery fits, Which frighten his old nurse out of her wits. Sometimes he screams, like Scrub in the play," "Thieves! Jesuits! Popery!" night and day; Takes the Printer's Devil for Doctor Dens," And shies at him heaps of High-church pens;" Which the Devil (himself a touchy Dissenter) Feels all in his hide, like arrows, enter. 'Stead of swallowing wholesome stuff from the druggist's,
If ask'd, how comes it the gown and cassock are Safe and fat, 'mid this general massacre
As I sate in my study, lone and still, Thinking of Sergeant Talfourd's Bill, And the speech by Lawyer Sugden made, In spirit congenial, for "the Trade," Sudden I sunk to sleep, and, lo,
Upon Fancy's reinless night-mare flitting, I found myself, in a second or so, At the table of Messrs. Type and Co.
With a goodly group of diners sitting;- All in the printing and publishing line, Dress'd, I thought, extremely fine, And sipping, like lords, their rosy wine; While I, in a state near inanition,
With coat that hadn't much nap to spare, (Having just gone into its second edition,) Was the only wretch of an author there. But think, how great was my surprise, When I saw, in casting round my eyes, That the dishes, sent up by Type's she-cooks, Bore all, in appearance, the shape of books; Large folios-God knows where they got 'em, In these small times-at top and bottom; And quartos (such as the Press provides For no one to read them) down the sides. Then flash'd a horrible thought on my brain, And I said to myself, ""Tis all too plain; "Like those well known in school quotations, "Who ate up for dinner their own relations "I see now, before me, smoking here,
"The bodies and bones of my brethren dear;
A whole dishful of Toms-Moore, Dibdin, Bayly,- He manfully answer'd, "Let us build the shrines,283 Bolted by Type and Co. so gayly! "And we care not if flocks are found for them or not."
Nor was this the worst-I shudder to think
What a scene was disclosed when they came to He then added-to show that the Silversmiths'
Compared to the new casus belli" of Mars,
Who, for years, has been suffering the horrors of quiet,
Uncheer'd by one glimmer of bloodshed or riot! In vain from the clouds his belligerent brow Did he pop forth, in hopes that somewhere or somehow,
Like Pat at a fair, he might "coax up a row:" But the joke wouldn't take-the whole world had got wiser;
Men liked not to take a Great Gun for adviser; And, still less, to march in fine clothes to be shot, Without very well knowing for whom or for what. The French, who of slaughter had had their full swing,
Were content with a shot, now and then, at their In our senate thou'st languish'd since Sheridan died,
While, in England, good fighting's a pastime so hard to gain,
Nobody's left to fight with, but Lord Cardigan.
"Tis needless to say, then, how monstrously happy Old Mars has been made by what's now on the tapis;
But Sydney still keeps thee alive in our shrines.
Rare Sydney! thrice honor'd the stall where he sits, And be his every honor he deigneth to climb at! Had England a hierarchy form'd all of wits, Who but Sydney would England proclaim as its primate?
Ye Gods! how different is the story With our new galloping sons of glory, Who, scorning all such slack and slow time, Dash to posterity in no time!
Raise but one general blast of Puff To start your author-that's enough. In vain the critics, set to watch him, Try at the starting post to catch him: He's off-the puffers carry it hollow- The critics, if they please, may follow. Ere they've laid down their first positions, He's fairly blown through six editions! In vain doth Edinburgh dispense Her blue and yellow pestilence (That plague so awful in my time To young and touchy sons of rhyme)- The Quarterly, at three months' date, To catch th' Unread One comes too late; And nonsense, litter'd in a hurry, Becomes "immortal," spite of Murray.
But, bless me!-while I thus keep fooling, I hear a voice cry, " Dinner's cooling." The postman, too, (who, truth to tell, 'Mong men of letters bears the bell,) Keeps ringing, ringing, so infernally That I must stop-
BY LORD STANLEY.
(HIS FIRST ATTEMPT IN VERSE.) "Evil, be thou my good."-MILTON.
How various are the inspirations Of different men, in different nations! As genius prompts to good or evil,
Some call the Muse, some raise the devil.
Old Socrates, that pink of sages
Kept a pet demon, on board wages
To go about with him incog., And sometimes give his wits a jog. So Lyndhurst, in our day, we know, Keeps fresh relays of imps below, To forward, from that nameless spot, His inspirations, hot and hot.
But, neat as are old Lyndhurst's doingsBeyond even Hecate's "hell-broth" brewingsHad I, Lord Stanley, but my will,
I'd show you mischief prettier still;
Mischief, combining boyhood's tricks With age's sourest politics; The urchin's freaks, the veteran's gall, Both duly mix'd, and matchless all; A compound naught in history reaches But Machiavel, when first in breeches!
Yes, Mischief, Goddess multiform, Whene'er thou, witch-like, rid'st the storm, Let Stanley ride cockhorse behind thee- No livelier lackey could they find thee. And, Goddess, as I'm well aware, So mischief's done, you care not where, I own, 'twill most my fancy tickle In Paddyland to play the Pickle; Having got credit for inventing A new, brisk method of tormenting- A way, they call the Stanley fashion, Which puts all Ireland in a passion; So neat it hits the mixture due Of injury and insult too; So legibly it bears upon't The stamp of Stanley's brazen front.
Ireland, we're told, means land of Ire, And why she's so, none need inquire, Who sees her millions, martial, manly, Spat upon thus by me, Lord Stanley. Already in the breeze I scent The whiff of coming devilment; Of strife, to me more stirring far Than th' Opium or the Sulphur war, Or any such drug ferments are. Yes-sweeter to this Tory soul Than all such pests, from pole to pole, Is the rich, "swelter'd venom" got By stirring Ireland's "charmed pot;" And, thanks to practice on that land, I stir it with a master-hand.
Again thou'lt see, when forth hath gone The War-Church-cry, "On, Stanley, on!" How Caravats and Shanavests
Shall swarm from out their mountain nests, With all their merry moonlight brothers, To whom the Church (step-dame to others) Hath been the best of nursing mothers. Again o'er Erin's rich domain Shall Rockites and right reverends reign. And both, exempt from vulgar toil, Between them share that titheful soil; Puzzling ambition which to climb at, The post of Captain, or of Primate.
And so, long life to Church and Co.Hurrah for mischief!-here we go.
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