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 doings

Beyond even Hecate's "hell-broth brewings

Had I, Lord Stanley, but my will,
I'd show you mischief prettier still;
Mischief, combining boyhoods' tricks
With age's sourest politics;

The urchin's freaks, the veteran's gall,
Both duly mixt, and matchless all;
A compound naught in history reaches
But Machiavel, when first in breeches!

Yes, Mischief, Goddess multiform, Whene'er thou, witch-like, ridest 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
where,

I own, 't will 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.

not

Ireland, we 're told, means the land of 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 the 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,

And long may it tnrive, my Ex-Bigwig, say I,

Tho', of late, much I feared all our fun was gone by;

As, except when some tithe-hunting parson showed sport,

Some rector —a cool hand at pistols and port,

Who "keeps dry" his powder, but never himself

One who, leaving his Bible to rust on the shelf,

Sends his pious texts home, in the shape of ball-cartridges,

Shooting his "dearly beloved," like partridges;

Except when some hero of this sort turned out,

Or, the Exchequer sent, flaming, its tithe-writs about

A contrivance more neat, I may say, without flattery,

Than e'er yet was thought of for blood

shed and battery;

- merely a bran-new Rebellion Commissioner;

The Courts having now, with true law

erudition,

Put even Rebellion itself "in commission."

As seldom, in this way, I'm any man's debtor,

I'll just pay my shot and then fold up this letter.

In the mean time, hurrah for the Tories and Rocks!

Hurrah for the parsons who fleece well their flocks!

So ready they're always, when dull we are growing,

To set our old concert of discord a-going, While Lyndhurst 's the lad, with his Tory-Whig face,

To play in such concert the true doublebase.

I had feared 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 wronged the old boy, who as stanchly derides

All reform in himself as in most things besides;

And, by using two faces thro' life, all allow, Has acquired 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, belowIf that "Lord," in his well-known discernment, but spares

Me and Lyndhurst, 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.

1 The subordinate officer or lieutenant of Captain Rock.

Even already-long life to such Bigwigs, say I,

For, as long as they flourish, we Rocks cannot die

He has served 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 incendi. ary's fire,

And enlists, in the gravest, most plausi. ble manner,

Seven millions of souls under Rockery's banner!

Oh Terry, my man, let this speech never die;

Thro' the regions of Rockland, like flame, let it fly;

Let each syllable dark the Law-Oracle uttered

By all Tipperary's wild echoes be muttered,

Till naught 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, tho' false be the cry, and tho' sense must abhor it,

Still the echoes may quote Law authority for it,

And naught Lyndhurst 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

FUM AND HUM, THE TWO BIRDS OF ROYALTY.

ONE day the Chinese Bird of Royalty, FUM,

Thus accosted our own Bird of Royalty, HUM,

In that Palace or China-shop (Brighton, which is it?)

Where FUM had just come to pay HUM a short visit.

Near akin are these Birds, tho' they differ in nation

(The breed of the HUMS is as old as creation);

Both, full-crawed Legitimates - both, birds of prey,

Both, cackling and ravenous creatures, half way

'Twixt the goose and the vulture, like Lord CASTLereagh.

While FUM deals in Mandarins, Bonzes, Bohea,

Peers, Bishops and Punch, HUM, are sacred to thee!

So congenial their tastes, that, when FUM first did light on

The floor of that grand China-warehouse at Brighton,

The lanterns and dragons and things round the dome

Were so like what he left, "Gad," says FUM, "I'm at home.".

And when, turning, he saw Bishop L-GE, "Zooks, it is," Quoth the Bird, "Yes I know him a Bonze, by his phiz "And that jolly old idol he kneels to so low

"Can be none but our round-about godhead, fat Fo!"

It chanced at this moment, the Episcopal Prig

Was imploring the Prince to dispense with his wig,1

Which the Bird, overhearing, flew high o'er his head,

And some TOBIT-like marks of his patronage shed,

Which so dimmed the poor Dandy's idolatrous eye,

That, while FUM cried "Oh Fo!" all the court cried "Oh fie!"