son 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 bloodshed and battery;

So neat, that even I might be proud, I allow,

To have hit off so rich a receipt for a

row;

Except for such rigs turning up, now and then,

I was actually growing the dullest of men ; And, had this blank fit been allowed to increase,

1 Exchequer tithe processes, served under a commission of rebellion. — Chronicle.

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

LINES ON THE DEATH OF MR. PERCEVAL.

IN the dirge we sung o'er him no censure was heard,

Unembittered and free did the teardrop descend;

We forgot, in that hour, how the statesman had erred,

And wept for the husband, the father and friend.

Oh! proud was the meed his integrity won,

And generous indeed were the tears that we shed,

When in grief we forgot all the ill he had done,

And tho' wronged by him living, bewailed him, when dead.

Even now if one harsher emotion intrude, "T is to wish he had chosen some low

lier state,

your readers to a late florid description of the Pavillion at Brighton, in the apart ments of which, we are told, "FUM, The Chinese Bird of Royalty," is a principal

ornament.

I am, Sir, yours, etc.

MUM.

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, HUм, 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 that jolly old idol he kneels to so low

Was rehearsing a speech upon Europe's repose

To the deep, double bass of the fat Idol's

nose.

head, fat Fo!"

But a truce to digression;- these Birds of a feather

Thus talkt, t'other night, on State matters together;

(The PRINCE just in bed, or about to depart for 't,

His legs full of gout, and his arms full of HARTFORD,)

"I say, HUM," says FUM — FUM, of course, spoke Chinese,

But, bless you! that 's nothing at Brighton one sees

Foreign lingoes and Bishops translated with ease

“I say, HUм, how fares it with Royalty

now?

POOL Come,

In collateral lines, from the old Mother

HUM,

CASTLEREAGH a HUM-bug - LIVERPOOL a HUM-drum.)

The Speech being finisht, out rusht CASTLEREAGH,

Saddled HUM in a hurry, and, whip, spur, away!

Thro' the regions of air, like a Snip on his hobby,

Ne'er paused till he lighted in St. Stephen's lobby.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF
SHERIDAN.

principibus placuisse viris!— HORAT. YES, grief will have way - but the fast falling tear

Shall be mingled with deep execrations on those

Who could bask in that Spirit's meridian

career,

And yet leave it thus lonely and dark at its close:

Whose vanity flew round him, only while

fed