I am nearly one hundred and thirty years old, I have, ev'ry year since, been outgrowing my clothes; Till, at last, such a corpulent giant I stand, That, if folks were to furnish me now with a suit, It would take ev'ry morsel of scrip in the land But to measure my bulk from the head to the foot. Hence, they who maintain me, grown sick of my stature, To cover me nothing but rags will supply; And the doctors declare that, in due course of nature, About the year 30 in rags I shall die. Then riddle-me-ree, oh riddle-me-ree, When the lord of the counting-house bends o'er his book, Bright pictures of profit delighting to draw, O'er his shoulders with large cipher eyeballs I look, And down drops the pen from his paralyzed paw! When the Premier lies dreaming of dear Waterloo, And expects through another to caper and prank it, You'd laugh did you see, when I bellow out " Boo!" How he hides his brave Waterloo head in the blanket. When mighty Belshazzar brims high in the hall His cup, full of gout, to the Gaul's overthrow, Lo," Eight Hundred Millions" I write on the wall, And the cup falls to earth and-the gout to his toe! But the joy of my heart is when largely I cram My maw with the fruits of the Squirearchy's acres, And, knowing who made me the thing that I am, Like the monster of Frankenstein, worry my makers. Then riddle-me-ree, come, riddle-me-ree, 1 One of the shows of London. 2 More particularly his Grace's celebrated amendment to the Corn Bill; for which, and the circumstances connected with it, see Annual Register for A. D. 1827. NEXT week will be publish'd (as "Lives" are the WHAT! Miguel, not patriotic? oh, fie, rage) The whole Reminiscences, wondrous and strange, Of a small puppy-dog, that lived once in the cage Of the late noble Lion at Exeter 'Change. Though the dog is a dog of the kind they call "sad," "Tis a puppy that much to good breeding pretends; And few dogs have such opportunities had Of knowing how Lions behave-among friends; How that animal eats, how he snores, how he drinks, That the Lion was no such great things after all. Though he roar'd pretty well-this the puppy allows It was all, he says, borrow'd-all second-hand roar; After so much good teaching 'tis quite a take-in, First school'd, as you were, under Metternich's eye, I ne'er in my life knew a case that was harder ;- Some authors, like Bayes, to the style and the matter Roast sirloin for Epic, broil'd devils 'for Satire, That Rulers should feed the same way, I've no doubt; Great Despots on bouilli served up à la Russe, 1 The nom de guerre under which Colman has written some of his best farces. 2 At the commencement of this year, the designs of Don Miguel and his partisans against the constitution established by his brother had begun more openly to declare themselves 3 Don Miguel had paid a visit to the English court, at the close of the year 1827. 4 Dressed with a pint of the strongest spirits-a favorite dish of the Great Frederick of Prussia, and which he persevered in eating even on his death-bed, much to the horror of his physician Zimmerman. Your small German Princes on frogs and sour-krout, While Peel, the showman in the middle, cracks Some Dons, too, have fancied (though this may be How bless'd, if neither steed would bolt or start ;fable) If Protestant's old restive tricks were gone, A dish rather dear, if, in cooking, they blunder And Papist's winkers could be still kept on! it ;But no, false hopes-not even the great Ducrow "Twixt two such steeds could 'scape an overthrow: If solar hacks play'd Phaeton a trick, What hope, alas, from hackney's lunatic? Not content with the common hot meat on a table, They're partial (eh, Mig ?) to a dish of cold under it! Of monarchs, who rule as well without them!- Of lost and torn-up reputations;— 2 Astolpho. Some, that had sigh'd their last amen From the canting lips of saints that would be; And some once own'd by "the best of men," Who had proved-no better than they should be. 'Mong others, a poet's fame I spied, Once shining fair, now soak'd and black"No wonder," (an imp at my elbow cried,) "For I pick'd it out of a butt of sack!" Just then a yell was heard o'er head, Like a chimney-sweeper's lofty summons; And lo! a devil right downward sped, Bringing, within his claws so red, Two statesmen's characters, found, he said, Last night, on the floor of the House of Com mons; The which, with black official grin, He now to the Chief Imp handed in ;- For their journey down, as you may suppose; But one so devilish rank-" Odds curse!" Said the Lord Chief Imp, and held his nose. "Ho, ho!" quoth he, "I know full well "From whom these two stray matters fell ;"Then, casting away, with loathful shrug, Th' uncleaner waif, (as he would a drug Th' Invisible's own dark hand had mix'd,) His gaze on the other' firm he fix'd, And trying, though mischief laugh'd in his eye, To be moral, because of the young imps by, "What a pity!" he cried—“ so fresh its gloss, "So long preserved-'tis a public loss! "This comes of a man, the careless blockhead, "Keeping his character in his pocket; "And there without considering whether 1 H-k-n. Or Lieutenant-General, as it may happen to be. At last-even this is achieved by his aid ;- And off struts my Lord, the Historian, in glory! "Yon smirking ghost, like mummy dry and neat, "Wrapp'd in his own dead rhymes-fit winding sheet "Still marvels much that not a soul should care "One single pin to know who wrote 'May Fair;'"While this young gentleman," (here forth he drew A dandy spectre, puff'd quite through and through, As though his ribs were an Æolian lyre IMITATION OF THE INFERNO OF DANTE. For the old Row's soft trade-winds to inspire,) "Cosi quel fiato gli spiriti mali Di quá, di là, di giù, di su gli mena." Inferno, canto 5. I TURN'D my steps, and lo, a shadowy throng "Whence and what are ye?" pitying I inquired Of these poor ghosts, who, tatter'd, toss'd, and tired With such eternal puffing, scarce could stand On their lean legs while answering my demand. "We once were authors"-thus the Sprite, who led This tag-rag regiment of spectres, said"Authors of every sex, male, female, neuter, "Who, early smit with love of praise and-pewter,' "On C-lb-n's' shelves first saw the light of day, "In -'s puffs exhaled our lives away"Like summer windmills, doom'd to dusty peace, "When the brisk gales, that lent them motion cease. "Ah, little knew we then what ills await 66 Much-lauded scribblers in their after state; (6 Bepuff'd on earth-how loudly Str―t can tell"And, dire reward, now doubly puff'd in hell!" Touch'd with compassion for his ghastly crew, Whose ribs, even now, the hollow wind sung through In mournful prose,-such prose as Rosa's3 ghost Still at th' accustom'd hour of eggs and toast, Sighs through the columns of the M—rn—g P—t,—— Pensive I turn'd to weep, when he, who stood Foremost of all that flatulential brood, Singling a she-ghost from the party, said, "Allow me to present Miss X. Y. Z.,1 "One of our letter'd nymphs-excuse the pun"Who gain'd a name on earth by-having none; "And whose initials would immortal be, "Had she but learn'd those plain ones, A. B. C. 1 The classical term for money. 2 The reader may fill up this gap with any one of the dissyllabic publishers of London that occurs to him. Rosa Matilda, who was for many years the writer of the political articles in the journal alluded to, and whose spirit still seems to preside-" regnat Rosa"-over its pages. "And thou thyself”—here, anxious, I exclaim'dTell us, good ghost, how thou, thyself, art named" "Me, Sir!" he blushing cried-" Ah, there's the rub "Know, then-a waiter once at Brooks's Club, "A waiter still I might have long remain'd, "And long the club-room's jokes and glasses drain'd; "But, ah, in luckless hour, this last December, "I wrote a book, and Colburn dubb'd me' Member "Member of Brooks's !'-oh Promethean puff, "To what wilt thou exalt even kitchen-stuff! "With crumbs of gossip, caught from dining wits, "And half-heard jokes, bequeath'd, like half-chew'd |