Ye tenths of rape, hemp, barley, flax,
Eggs,' timber, milk, fish, and bees' wax;
All things, in short, since earth's creation,
Doom'd, by the Church's dispensation,
To suffer eternal decimation-

Leaving the whole lay-world, since then,
Reduced to nine parts out of ten;
Or-as we calculate thefts and arsons-
Just ten per cent. the worse for Parsons!

Alas, and is all this wise device

For the saving of souls thus gone in a trice?—
The whole put down, in the simplest way,
By the souls resolving not to pay!
And even the Papists, thankless race,
Who have had so much the easiest case-
To pay for our sermons doom'd, 'tis true,
But not condemn'd to hear them, too—
(Our holy business being, 'tis known,

With the ears of their barley, not their own,)
Even they object to let us pillage,

By right divine, their tenth of tillage,
And, horror of horrors, even decline
To find us in sacramental wine !?

It is o'er, it is o'er, my reign is o'er,
Ah, never shall rosy Rector more,
Like the shepherds of Israel, idly eat,
And make of his flock "a prey and meat."
No more shall be his the pastoral sport
Of suing his flock in the Bishop's Court,
Through various steps, Citation, Libel-
Scriptures all, but not the Bible;
Working the Law's whole apparatus,
To get at a few pre-doom'd potatoes,
And summoning all the powers of wig,
To settle the fraction of a pig!-
Till, parson and all committed deep
In the case of " Shepherds versus Sheep,"
The Law usurps the Gospel's place,
And, on Sundays, meeting face to face,
While Plaintiff fills the preacher's station,
Defendants form the congregation.

So lives he, Mammon's priest, not Heaven's,
For tenths thus all at sixes and sevens,
Seeking what parsons love no less
Than tragic poets-a good distress.
Instead of studying St. Augustin,
Gregory Nyss., or old St. Justin,

1 Chaucer's Plowman complains of the parish rectors, that "For the tithing of a duck,

Or an apple or an aye, (egg,)

They make him swear upon a boke;

Thus they foulen Christ's fay."

Among the specimens laid before Parliament of the sort

(Books fit only to hoard dust in,)
His reverence stints his evening readings
To learn'd Reports of Tithe Proceedings,
Sipping, the while, that port so ruddy,
Which forms his only ancient study ;-
Port so old, you'd swear its tartar
Was of the age of Justin Martyr,
And, had he sipp'd of such, no doubt
His martyrdom would have been—to gout.

Is all then lost ?-alas, too true-
Ye Tenths beloved, adieu, adieu !
My reign is o'er, my reign is o'er-
Like old Thumb's ghost, "I can no more."

THE EUTHANASIA OF VAN.

"We are told that the bigots are growing old and fast wearing out. If it be so, why not let us die in peace!"— LORD BEXLEY'S Letter to the Freeholders of Kent.

STOP, Intellect, in mercy stop,
Ye cursed improvements, cease;
And let poor Nick V-ns-tt-t drop
Into his grave in peace.

Hide, Knowledge, hide thy rising sun, Young Freedom, veil thy head; Let nothing good be thought or done, Till Nick V-ns-tt-t's dead!

Take pity on a dotard's fears,

Who much doth light detest; And let his last few drivelling years Be dark as were the rest.

You, too, ye fleeting one-pound notes, Speed not so fast away

Ye rags, on which old Nicky gloats, A few months longer stay.

Together soon, or much I err,

You both from life may goThe notes unto the scavenger, And Nick-to Nick below.

Ye Liberals, whate'er your plan, Be all reforms suspended;

of Church rates levied upon Catholics in Ireland, was a charge of two pipes of port for sacramental wine.

3 Ezekiel, xxxiv. 10.-" Neither shall the shepherds feed themselves any more; for I will deliver my flock from the mouth, that they may not be meat for them."

4 Perituræ parcere chartæ.

A CURIOUS FACT.

Just as honest King Stephen his beaver might doff To the fishes that carried his kind uncle offAnd while filial piety urges so many on,

letters,

For which the waste-paper folks much are his

debtors)

Hath one little oddity, well worth reciting,

Which puzzleth observers, even more than his wri

ting

Whenever Lord K-ny-n doth chance to behold
A cold Apple-pie-mind, the pie must be cold-
His Lordship looks solemn, (few people know why,)
And he makes a low bow to the said apple-pie.
This idolatrous act, in so "vital" a Peer,
Is, by most serious Protestants, thought rather
queer-

Pie-worship, they hold, coming under the head
(Vide Crustium, chap. iv.) of the Worship of Bread.
Some think 'tis a tribute, as author, he owes

Sir,

NEW-FASHIONED ECHOES.

Most of your readers are, no doubt, acquainted with the anecdote told of a certain, not over-wise, judge, who, when in the act of delivering a charge in some country court-house, was interrupted by the braying of an ass at the door. "What noise is that?" asked the angry judge. "Only an extraor¦ dinary echo there is in court, my Lord," answered one of the counsel.

As there are a number of such "extraordinary echoes” abroad just now, you will not, perhaps, be unwilling, Mr. |

prose ;

The only good things in his pages, they swear, Being those that the pastry-cook sometimes puts there.

Others say, 'tis a homage, through pie-crust convey'd,

To our Glorious Deliverer's much-honor'd shade;
As that Protestant Hero (or Saint, if you please)
Was as fond of cold pie as he was of green peas,'
And 'tis solely in loyal remembrance of that,
My Lord K-ny-n to apple-pie takes off his hat.
While others account for this kind salutation
By what Tony Lumpkin calls "concatenation ;"—
A certain good-will that, from sympathy's ties,
"Twixt old Apple-women and Orange-men lies.

But 'tis needless to add, these are all vague surmises,

For thus, we're assured, the whole matter arises:
Lord K-ny-n's respected old father (like many
Respected old fathers) was fond of a penny;
And loved so to save, that-there's not the least
question-

His death was brought on by a bad indigestion, From cold apple-pie-crust his Lordship would stuff in,

At breakfast, to save the expense of hot muffin. Hence it is, and hence only, that cold apple-pies Are beheld by his Heir with such reverent eyes

1 See the anecdote, which the Duchess of Marlborough relates in her Memoirs of this polite hero appropriating to himself, one day, at dinner, a whole dish of green peas-the first of the season-while the poor Princess Anne, who was then in a longing condition, sat by, vainly entreating, with her eyes, for a share.

Yours &c.

When K-ny-n commences the bray,

And the Borough-Duke follows his track'; And loudly from Dublin's sweet bay, R-thd-ne brays, with interest, back ;—

And while, of most echoes the sound

On our ear by reflection doth fall, These Brunswickers' pass the bray round, Without any reflection at all.

Oh Scott, were I gifted like you,

Who can name all the echoes there are From Benvoirlich to bold Ben-venue, From Benledi to wild Uamvar;

I might track, through each hard Irish name,
The rebounds of this asinine strain,
Till from Neddy to Neddy, it came

To the chief Neddy, K-ny-n, again;

Might tell how it roar'd in R-thd-ne,
How from D-ws-n it died off genteelly-
How hollow it rung from the crown

Of the fat-pated Marquis of E-y;

How, on hearing my Lord of G——e, Thistle-eaters, the stoutest, gave way, Outdone, in their own special line,

By the forty-ass power of his bray!

But, no-for so humble a bard

"Tis a subject too trying to touch on; Such noblemen's names are too hard,

And their noddles too soft to dwell much on.

Oh Echo, sweet nymph of the hill,

Of the dell, and the deep-sounding shelves;

If, in spite of Narcissus, you still

1st Bruns.-Round about the caldron go; In the poisonous nonsense throw. Bigot spite, that long hath grown, Like a toad within a stone, Sweltering in the heart of Sc-tt, Boil we in the Brunswick pot.

All.-Dribble, dribble, nonsense d: oble, Eld-n, talk, and K-ny-n, scribble.

2d Bruns.-Slaver from N-wc-stle's quill In the noisome mess distil,

Brimming high our Brunswick broth

Both with venom and with froth.
Mix the brains (though apt to hash ill,
Being scant) of Lord M-ntc-shel,
With that malty stuff which Ch―nd-s
Drivels as no other man does.
Catch (i. e. if catch you can)
One idea, spick and span,

From my Lord of S-1-sb-y,—
One idea, though it be
Smaller than the "happy flea,"
Which his sire, in sonnet terse,
Wedded to immortal verse.*
Though to rob the son is sin,
Put his one idea in ;

And, to keep it company,

All-Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble, B-xl-y, talk, and K-ny-n, scribble.

3d Bruns. Now the charm begins to brew; Sisters, sisters, add thereto

Scraps of L-thbr-dge's old speeches,
Mix'd with leather from his breeches.
Rinsings of old B-xl-y's brains,
Thicken'd (if you'll take the pains)
With that pulp which rags create,
In their middle, nympha state,
Ere, like insects frail and sunny,
Forth they wing abroad as money.
There-the Hell-broth we've enchanted-
Now but one thing more is wanted.
Squeeze o'er all that Orange juice,
keeps cork'd for use,

C-
Which, to work the better spell, is
Color'd deep with blood of

WHENE'ER you're in doubt, said a Sage I once knew,

"Twixt two lines of conduct which course to pursue, Ask a woman's advice, and, whate'er she advise, Do the very reverse, and you're sure to be wise.

Of the same use as guides, are the Brunswicker throng;

Watch well how he dines, during any great Ques

tion

What makes him feed gayly, what spoils his diges

tion

And always feel sure that his joy o'er a stew
Portends a clear case of dyspepsia to you.

Read him backwards, like Hebrew-whatever he wishes,

Or praises, note down as absurd, or pernicious.
Like the folks of a weather-house, shifting about,
When he's out, be an In-when he's in, be an Out.
Keep him always reversed in your thoughts, night
and day,

Like an Irish barometer turn'd the wrong way :-
If he's up, you may swear that foul weather is

nigh;