THE PREMIER AND THE PLOUGHMAN.
AN ELECTIONEERING ANECDOTE, VERSIFIED.

[From the Morning Chronicle, Nov. 5.]

ONCE on a time, and that not long ago,

(The story's true I vow,)

A certain Minister

Went with his friend down to a Cornish borough,
Resolv'd, by methods fair (or sinister),
To add in Parliament to his majority:

But, as it happen'd, to his sorrow,

A rival candidate had got priority;
Old Time by forelock he had caught,

And as his purse was long, the voters greedy,
So wisely he distributed the ready,
And with his pound-notes parted,
That many independent votes he'd bought
Before the Treasury member started.
Never was known a contest more severe

At Gatton, Midhurst, or at Wareham,
Saint Germains, Rye, or Haslemere,

Or e'en at populous Old Sarum.
The votes were ev'n, the hour advanc'd
For shutting books, when (so it chanc'd)
The only freeman left appear'd in view,
In size a thumper.

The wily May'r at distance had discern'd him,
And knew him for a right good man and true :"
He came and gave the Premier's friend a plumper-
The poll was clos'd, so Mister May'r return'd him.

The Minister, o'erjoy'd at this conclusion, Sent for the lout, call'd him his friend, his brother, And as one good turn, sure, deserves another,

Heap'd on him promises in vast profusion. "What can I do to show my gratitude?

Whate'er you ask is yours-a place-a pensionYou've done your country (that is, me) such good, By heav'n I promise you whate'er you mention." "An' please your Lordship's Worship," bowing low, The Farmer said, you do confuse me zo,

Your

And soon o'erturn'd the debt-encumber'd foe;
We talk'd and argu'd: ere a pound was paid,
A promise from my tongue upset the chief,
Who had that day the box which now I have!
Returning home in triumph, I disdain'd
A brewer's vulgar life; and having read
That our old King had summon'd his good towns
To send new members up to Abbott's side;
I went to Bedford, and behind me left
A chosen Lord to follow in my steps-
Yon bald-head bigot who forsook his master.

(Pointing to Lord H's box.)
Journeying with that intent, I've 'scap'd the Tower,
And, pride-directed, come this night to hear
The rabble shouts that greet my brazen name.

THE TWO BUSBYS.

"Use every man according to his deserts, and who shall escape whipping?"

[From the Morning Chronicle.]

ERST, Doctor Busby the terrific Virga

HAMLET.

Applied with vigour to each urchin's Terga.

Now (tit for tat!) let every urchin come,

And tickle up the modern Busby's b

Oct. 23,

1812.

BIRCH

THE SQUIRE AND HIS DOGS: A FABLE.

IN

[From the Morning Herald, Nov. 3.]

N Wales, sweet pretty principality,
A man there dwelt, whose partiality
For dogs was quite proverbial grown;
With richest food he kindly fatted them,
And on their pretty heads he patted them.
A staunch Philocy noster known,
Who, when the rising sun appear'd,
The vale delighted, or the village cheer'd,
Would over meadows, hills, and rocks,
Hunt his own pack, and follow up the Fox.
Time, as the poet sings, "doth swiftly fly,"
And faith the poet sings no lie;

Then time brings death,

Who stops the breath

Of men,

And ther

We fall,-e'en so poor dogs must die.
So did our Cambrian Squire's-his pack
Of much amendment had a lack

For the old hound

Who staunch was found,

In sport or labour often tried,

3

Lick'd the fond hand that gave them meat,
Then laid him at his master's feet,

And, faithful as he serv'd him, died!-
When this fine animal was dead,
The pack went loose-without a head,
No steady purpose in their run,
No brushes taken-nothing done;
At length an opportunity occurr'd
To call them forth;

But 't was a sorry sight, I've heard,
To see the pack

So ruin'd, and the breed so crost,
The spirit of the creatures lost,

So mix'd with Greys, and White and Black,
That they were nothing worth;

A broad-back'd pug would take the lead
In all their runs,

And a tall mangey Grey-hound hunt
Full in the front,

Who must be fed-on hot cross buns!
A dancing dog in Petty-coats had mingled,
Whose pretty bells and collar jingled,
With many others who might follow,
Staunch dogs at a view holla;

But who, from the nature of the breed,
Could never by themselves succeed.
They had been hunted for a year,
And what they did will best appear
In Whitelocke's Sporting Calendar.
So having seen the dogs, the Squire fix'd,
That with his father's pack, when mix'd,

They'd

Your Honour's koindness to me 's quite distrezzing➡ I want no place nor pension, Zur, not I—

But zin' you are so prezzing,

I've a young lad, who, thof' he's zummut shy,
Can read and wroite, and zum a little bit-
I do azzure you, Zur, he's got a head.

A little place i' th' Custom House, Excize, or-
Just what your Worship's goodness shall think fit-
Dick Gauge is now grown old; when he be dead,
Zuppose you make my zon the Zupervizor."
Enough," replied the Peer, "I will, depend on 't→
When Gauge is gone, post you forthwith to town,
Tell me the news, I'll get the business done;
So, there's an end on 't."

"Ay, but," says Clod, " you great volk, they do zay, In Lunnun town be never to be zeen:

Zuppose, when I ha' journey'd all thick way,

And reach'd your houze, they should no' let me in."

"Poh! poh!" the Statesman quick replied, Sleeping or waking-be it night or day,

You're always sure to find me in the way ;

66 no more

Damme," (for Lords can swear,) "knock at the door; Take no denial, onward boldly venture,

Nay, though I'm in my bed-room, enter

Say but the fellow 's dead, (I tell no lies, man,)

By G your son shall then be made exciseman."

This said, the Ploughman and the Statesman parted;

A coach and four

Was at the door,

And in the latter darted.

Smack went the whip, away he shot;

To London quick his course he bent,

His mind on other things intent

The Farmer, Son, Mayor, Borough-all forgot. Some weeks elaps'd-the Premier fail'd

To satisfy the nation,

He had not made a single hit,

And, truth to say, (though vile intrigue prevail'd,)
Never was poor devil so unfit

For such a station!

One

One little secret darling project still,

In spite of Opposition's brawl,

He trusted would his warmest hopes fulfil, And settle all.

A treaty long had been upon the tapis

With

; fram'd with skill so happy,

It could not fail;

Nor Whitworth, nor Cornwallis, nor Fitzharris,
Manag'd so well at Amiens or Paris,
Nor Lauderdale.

And now the telegraph at Dover
Announc'd the courier had brought over
The long-expected Ultimatum
Signatum atque sigillatum;

And that, besides, he'd learnt, along the coast,
(But here he reckon'd, Sirs, without his host,)
That Bony, who so oft had died before,
Was dead again, and certes Now no more.

The messenger expecting in the night,

Home went th' exulting Peer; but ere he did
To bed betake him,

Gave charge that, come what hour the courier might,
His valet instantly (whate'er betid)
Should step and wake him.

The clock struck three-the watchman went his round,
When suddenly the knocker of the door
Amaz'd the welkin with its thund'ring roar,
Sure ne'er was heard so loud and deep a sound:
Up jump'd the porter, in the stranger walk'd,
The folding-doors flew open-on he stalk'd,
Nor stopp'd till he had reach'd the Premier's bed,
Who from the pillow starting up his head,
Cried," IS HE DEAD?"

"He is, an' pleaze your Grace," replied the boor.
"When did he die ?"

"Yezterday morning, Zur, at half past fourHe's dead indeed!

And zin you'd scorn, you zaid, to tell a lie, I hopes you'll let my zon zucceed."

"Succeed