From pressing words of great and small
To free yourself, give hopes to all,

And fail nineteen in twenty:

What, wound my honour, break my word?
You're young again,-you may, my Lord,
Have precedents, in plenty!

Indeed, young Statesman, 'twill not do,—
Some other ways and means pursue,
More fitted to your station:

What from your boyish freaks can spring?
Mere toys! The favour of your king,

And love of all the nation.

David Garrick.

CXCIV.

PADDY'S METAMORPHOSIS.

ABOUT fifty years since, in the days of our daddies,
That plan was commenced which the wise now applaud,
Of shipping off Ireland's most turbulent Paddies,
As good raw materials for settlers, abroad.

Some West Indian Island, whose name I forget,

Was the region then chosen for this scheme so romantic ; And such the success the first colony met,

That a second, soon after, set sail o'er the Atlantic. Behold them now safe at the long look'd-for shore, Sailing in between banks that the Shannon might greet, And thinking of friends whom, but two years before,

They had sorrow'd to lose, but would soon again meet. And, hark! from the shore a glad welcome there came"Arrah, Paddy from Cork, is it you, my sweet boy?" While Pat stood astounded, to hear his own name

Thus hail'd by black devils, who caper'd for joy!

Can it possibly be ?-half amazement-half doubt,
Pat listens again-rubs his eyes and looks steady;
Then heaves a deep sigh, and in horror yells out,
"Good Lord! only think-black and curly already!'

Deceived by that well-mimick'd brogue in his ears,
Pat read his own doom in these wool-headed figures,
And thought, what a climate, in less than two years,
To turn a whole cargo of Pats into niggers!

MORAL.

'Tis thus, but alas! by a moral more true

Than is told in this rival of Ovid's best stories, Your Whigs, when in office a short year or two, By a lusus naturæ, all turn into Tories.

And thus, when I hear them "strong measures" advise, Ere the seats that they sit on have time to get steady, I say, while I listen, with tears in my eyes,

"Good Lord !—only think-black and curly already !” Thomas Moore.

CXCV.

THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE. GRINDER.

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

"NEEDY knife-grinder! whither are you going?
Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order-
Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in't,
So have your breeches!

66 Weary knife-grinder! little think the proud ones,
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-
Road, what hard work 'tis crying all day, Knives and
Scissors to grind O!'

"Tell me, knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives? Did some rich man tyrannically use you?

Was it the squire? or parson of the parish?
Or the attorney?

"Was it the squire for killing of his game? or
Covetous parson for his tithes distraining?
Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little

All in a law-suit?

"(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine ?) Drops of compassion tremble on my eye-lids,

Ready to fall as soon as you have told your

Pitiful story."

KNIFE-GRINDER,

"Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir,
Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers,
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were
Torn in the scuffle.

"Constable came up for to take me into Custody; they took me before the Justice; Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish

Stocks for a vagrant.

"I should be glad to drink your honour's health in A pot of beer, if you would give me sixpence;

But, for my part, I never love to meddle

With politics, sir.”

66

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damned firstWretch! whom no sense of wrong can rouse to vengeanceSordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,

Spiritless outcast!"

(Kicks the knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.)

Anti-Jacobin.

CXCVI.

A POLITICAL DESPATCH.

IN matters of commerce, the fault of the Dutch
Is giving too little and asking too much;
With equal advantage the French are content,
So we'll clap on Dutch bottoms a twenty per cent.
Twenty per cent.,

Twenty per cent.,

Nous frapperons Falck with twenty per cent.

The Right Hon. George Canning.

CXCVII.

FRAGMENT OF AN ORATION.

Part of Mr. Whitbread's speech on the trial of Lord Melville, put into verse by Canning at the time it was delivered.

I'm like Archimedes for science and skill,
I'm like a young prince going straight up a hill;
I'm like (with respect to the fair be it said,)
I'm like a young lady just bringing to bed.
If you ask why the 11th of June I remember,
Much better than April, or May, or November,
On that day, my Lords, with truth, I assure ye,
My sainted progenitor set up his brewery;

On that day, in the morn, he began brewing beer:
On that day, too, began his connubial career;
On that day he received and he issued his bills;

On that day he cleared out all the cash from his tills;
On that day he died, having finished his summing,

And the angels all cried, "Here's old Whitbread a-coming!"
So that day still I hail with a smile and a sigh,
For his beer with an E, and his bier with an I;
And still on that day, in the hottest of weather,
The whole Whitbread family dine all together.
So long as the beams of this house shall support
The roof which o'ershades this respectable court,
Where Hastings was tried for oppressing the Hindoos:
So long as the sun shall shine in at those windows,
My name shall shine bright as my ancestor's shines,
Mine recorded in journals, his blazon'd on signs!

The Right Hon. George Canning.

CXCVIII.

KING CRACK AND HIS IDOLS.

Written after the late negotiation for a new ministry.

KING CRACK was the best of all possible kings,
(At least so his courtiers would swear to you gladly,)
But Crack now and then would do het'rodox things,
And, at last, took to worshipping images sadly.

Some broken-down idols, that long had been placed

In his Father's old Cabinet, pleased him so much, That he knelt down and worshipp'd, tho'—such was his taste!

They were monstrous to look at, and rotten to touch.

And these were the beautiful gods of King Crack!—
But his People, disdaining to worship such things,
Cried aloud, one and all, "Come, your godships must pack-
You'll not do for us, tho' you may do for Kings."

Then, trampling these images under their feet,

They sent Crack a petition, beginning "Great Cæsar! We're willing to worship; but only entreat

That you'll find us some decenter godheads than these are."

"I'll try," says King Crack-so they furnish'd him models Of better shaped gods, but he sent them all back;

Some were chisell'd too fine, some had heads 'stead of noddles,

In short they were all much too godlike for Crack.

So he took to his darling old idols again,

And, just mending their legs and new bronzing their faces,

In open defiance of gods and of men,

Set the monsters up grinning once more in their places.

Thomas Moore.

CXCIX.

THE PILOT THAT WEATHERED THE STORM

IF hush'd the loud whirlwind that ruffled the deep,
The sky if no longer dark tempests deform,
When our perils are past, shall our gratitude sleep?
No-here's to the pilot that weather'd the storm:

At the footstool of Power let Flattery fawn;
Let Faction her idol extol to the skies;
To Virtue in humble retirement withdrawn,
Unblamed may the accents of gratitude rise!