Scarce had the spectre's lips these words let drop,
When, lo, a breeze-such as from
-'s shop

Blows in the vernal hour, when puffs prevail,
And speeds the sheets and swells the lagging sale-
Took the poor waiter rudely in the poop,
And, whirling him and all his grisly group
Of literary ghosts-Miss X. Y. Z.-

The nameless author, better known than read-
Sir Jo.-the Honorable Mr. L-st-r,
And, last, not least, Lord Nobody's twin-sister-
Blew them, ye gods, with all their prose and rhymes
And sins about them, far into those climes
"Where Peter pitch'd his waistcoat"1 in old times,
Leaving me much in doubt, as on I press'd
With my great master, through this realm unbless'd,
Whether old Nick or C-lb-n puffs the best.

LAMENT FOR THE LOSS OF LORD B-TH-ST'S TAIL'

ALL in again-unlook'd for bliss!
Yet, ah, one adjunct still we miss ;-
One tender tie, attach'd so long

To the same head, through right and wrong.
Why, B-th-st, why didst thou cut off
That memorable tail of thine?
Why-as if one was not enough-

Thy pig-tie with thy place resign,
And thus, at once, both cut and run?
Alas, my Lord, 'twas not well done,
"Twas not, indeed-though sad at heart,
From office and its sweets to part,
Yet hopes of coming in again,
Sweet Tory hopes! beguiled our pain;
But thus to miss that tail of thine,

Through long, long years our rallying sign—
As if the State and all its powers

By tenancy in tail were ours

To see it thus by scissors fall,
This was "th' unkindest cut of all!"

It seem'd as though th' ascendant day
Of Toryism had pass'd away,

1 A Dantesque allusion to the old saying, "Nine miles beyond H-11, where Peter pitched his waistcoat."

2 The noble Lord, it is well known, cut off this muchrespected appendage, on his retirement from office some months since.

And, proving Samson's story true, She lost her vigor with her queue.

Parties are much like fish, 'tis said-
The tail directs them, not the head;
Then, how could any party fail,

That steer'd its course by B-th-st's tail?
Not Murat's plume, through Wagram's fight,
E'er shed such guiding glories from it,
As erst, in all true Tories' sight,
Blazed from our old Colonial comet!
If you, my Lord, a Bashaw were,

(As W―ll-gt-n will be anon,)
Thou might'st have had a tail to spare ;
But no, alas, thou hadst but one,
And that-like Troy, or Babylon,
A tale of other times-is gone!
Yet-weep ye not, ye Tories true-

Fate has not yet of all bereft us; Though thus deprived of B-th-st's queue, We've E-b-h's curls still left us ;Sweet curls, from which young Love, so vicious, His shots, as from nine-pounders, issues; Grand, glorious curls, which, in debate, Surcharged with all a nation's fate, His Lordship shakes, as Homer's God did,

And oft in thundering talk comes near him ;Except that, there, the speaker nodded,

And, here, 'tis only those who hear him.

Long, long, ye ringlets, on the soil

Of that fat cranium may ye flourish,

With plenty of Macassar oil,

Through many a year your growth to nourish! And, ah, should Time too soon unsheath

His barbarous shears such locks to sever,

Still dear to Tories, even in death,

Their last, loved relics we'll bequeath,
A hair-loom to our sons forever.

And thus let your farce be enacted hereafterThus honestly persecute, outlaw, and chain;

expense;

1 During the discussion of the Catholic question in the

House of Commons last session.

This rhyme is more for the ear than the eye, as the carpenter's tool is spelt auger.

And never, oh never, try reasoning again!

Fabius, who sent droves of bullocks against the enemy

4 Res Fisci est, ubicumque natat.—JUVENAL.

WRITE on, write on, ye Barons dear,

Ye Dukes, write hard and fast;
The good we've sought for many a year
Your cuills will bring at last.
One letter nore, N-wc-stle, pen
To match Lord K-ny-n's two,
And more than Ireland's host of men,
One brace of Peers will do.

Write on, write on, &c

Sure, never, since the precious use

Of pen and ink began,

Did letters, writ by fools, produce

Such signal good to man.

While intellect, 'mong high and low,

Is marching on, they say,

1 A reverend prebendary of Hereford, in an Essay on the Revenues of the Church of England, has assigned the origin of Tithes to "some unrecorded revelation made to Adam."

SONG OF THE DEPARTING SPIRIT OF

TITHE.

"The parting Genius is with sighing sent."-MILTON.

It is o'er, it is o'er, my reign is o'er;
I hear a Voice, from shore to shore,
From Dunfanaghy to Baltimore,
And it saith, in sad, parsonic tone,
"Great Tithe and Small are dead and gone!"

Even now, I behold your vanishing wings,
Ye Tenths of all conceivable things,
Which Adam first, as Doctors deem,
Saw, in a sort of night-mare dream,'
After the feast of fruit abhorr'd-
First indigestion on record!-

Ye decimate ducks, ye chosen chicks,
Ye pigs which, though ye be Catholics,
Or of Calvin's most select depraved,

In the Church must have your bacon saved ;-
Ye fields, where Labor counts his sheaves,

And, whatsoe'er himself believes,

Must bow to th' Establish'd Church belief,
That the tenth is always a Protestant sheaï;—
Ye calves, of which the man of Heaven
Takes Irish tithe, one calf in seven ;2

2"The tenth calf is due to the parson of common right; and if there are seven he shall have one."-REES's Cyclopædia, art. "Tithes."