His Highness, perhaps, would not choose such a Necker, If he meant that his loans should e'er reach his Exchequer; The treasurer, too,

Having nothing to do,

May work at his his'try of Maracayboo.

Then a fig for King George and his old-fashioned sway!
And hey for Macgregor, Cacique of Poyais !

Lord Chancellor Ill-done (late Brougham) will dispense
Sound law, rigid honour, and solid good sense;
And in the recess―having judged every case—
Teach parrots to chatter and apes to grimace!
While Williams shall be,

With a very small fee,

Accountant and Master i' the black chancerie.
So a fig for King George and his old-fashioned sway!
And hey for Macgregor, Cacique of Poyais!

To thrive as Chief Justice Tom C—y can't fail,
He knows how a libeller's sentenced to jail,
And needs but repeat to each criminal elf
The lecture old Ellenbro' read to himself;
But sitting in bank

Where the climate is dank,

'Tis thought the Chief Justice may smell rather rank; But what cares King George and his old-fashioned sway! So hey for Macgregor, Cacique of Poyais!

B-t's place was doubtful—the mere name of Scott
Sufficed to determine Sir F-s's lot;

As Judge of the Arches, he may decide on

Those delicate cases, best known as Crim. Con. ;
While little Cam Hob,

The Tom Thumb of the mob,

Attends, as his proctor, the charges to fob.

Then a fig for King George and his old-fashioned sway!
And hey for Macgregor, Cacique of Poyais!

Lord Chamberlain Peter will marshal his state,
And teach-he knows how-all the footmen to wait;
Lord Steward, little Taylor presides at the table;
And Maberly (Count of Bazaar) in the stable;
His Lordship contracts

For hunters and hacks,

Hay, oats, beans, and horse-cloths, mops, bushels, and sacks!

Then a fig for King George and his old-fashioned sway!
And hey for Macgregor, Cacique of Poyais!

Lord A-e his title and rank will resign,
Content by his own native merit to shine :-

And all his friends tell us that 'tis not too late

To teach him, as porter, to open the gate:

Το manage the claims

Of the Irish, he names

In his absence, Jack Smith and the straight-sighted James; Then a fig for King George and his old-fashioned sway! And hey for Macgregor, Cacique of Poyais !

With a gown on his back and a wig on his head,
As touchy as tinder-as heavy as lead,

The Speaker elect, in his privilege dress'd,

Lets loose his own tongue, but ties up all the rest! 'Tis a very great place

For a man in his case,

Who is now but a kind of house-steward to his Grace.
But a fig for King George and his old-fashioned sway!
And hey for Macgregor, Cacique of Poyais!

At the head of his Guards, to discomfit a mob,
His Highness is pleased to commission Sir Bob;

No blood he e'er lost, and no blood he e'er drew!
Expelled each old service, he's fit for the new!
But as some folks demur

To his title of Sir,

He means to invest him again with the spur.
Then a fig for King George and his old-fashioned sway!
And hey for Macgregor, Cacique of Poyais!

Joe H-e- with one page of a delicate mien-
Embarks as Lord Rector of New Aberdeen <

He offers, besides, with a zeal that ne'er slumbers,
To lecture on English, ship-building, and numbers.
Moreover, the "Ractor"

Wull act as "Dissactor,"

And paymaster, postmaster, clerk, and contractor! Then a fig for King George and his old-fashioned sway! And hey for Macgregor, Cacique of Poyais !

'Twas settled that little G-y B-t should rule,
With sugar-cane sceptre the black sunday school;
In pungent salt-pickle his rods he had dipped;
Yet then he'd have wept all the time that he whipped!
But it seems that of late

He has got an estate;

And stays here in England to pipe and to prate.
So a fig for King George and his old-fashioned sway!
And hey for Macgregor, Cacique of Poyais!

To sing such great statesmen and morals so pure,
His first bard is Bowring-the second Tom Moore;
Leigh Hunt was refused, as a cockneyized calf,
And Rogers, for being too comic by half!
For me, I confess,

I am paid to express

My love for Poyais, and I can do no less.

So a fig for King George and his old-fashioned sway!
And hey for Macgregor, Cacique of Poyais!

WEIGHTY

ASSISTANCE;

OR,

THE RELIEF OF CADIZ.

BY AN EX-CAPTAIN OF THE AYLESBURY TROOP OF BUCKINGHAMSHIRE YEOMANRY.

To the Tune of Lord Grizzle's Song in Tom Thumb.

The French are encamped before Cadiz,
Their navy is moored in the bay,
And liberal Europe afraid is,

The Cortes are melting away.

But e'er the last blow can be struck-struck-
I'll fly to their rescue, and soon

Will shew them the soul of a Buck-Buck-
Buckinghamshire dragoon.

I turned my old yeomanry jacket,
And added new buttons and lace;
A helmet I bought, which, to pack it,
Would take up a harpsichord case!
My trowsers so ample I stuck-stuck—
All over with yellow galloon,

In short, my whole dress spoke the Buck-Buck-
Buckinghamshire dragoon.

O! had I the wings of an eagle,

To make a more rapid approach!

But men of my size bear fatigue ill,
And so I must go by the coach.

As a twelve-pounder groans on its truck-truck,
So labor'd the Falmouth Balloon,

When I mounted its step, like a Buck—Buck—
Buckinghamshire dragoon !

And there was squeezed in, an old lady,
So like me, behind and before,

That when we were called on to pay, they
Obliged us to reckon as four.

We were both very soon in a muck-muck,
(The weather was sultry as June,)
And I panted for breath like a Buck—Buck—
Buckinghamshire dragoon.

You ask what I did with my helmet,
And all the vast bulk of my gear?

As the coach such a load would o'erwhelm, it
Went by the van in the rear!

But coach and van frequently stuck-stuck,
My partner was ready to swoon;

But the peril I bore like a Buck-Buck—
Buckinghamshire dragoon!

--

The packet at Falmouth was quite full
Too deep in the water by tons!
But the captain's resource was delightful,
And to take me he landed his guns !
So down in the hold I was stuck-stuck,

And for weeks never saw sun or moon, 'Twas a very poor state for a Buck-Buck— Buckinghamshire dragoon.

The Frenchmen who guarded the bay there,
To keep food and succour aloof,
Examined our ship, as I lay there,
Insisting that I was a "bœuf !"

I trembled lest I should be stuck-stuck--
But the Captain persuaded them soon
That I was no "bœuf," but a Buck-Buck-
Buckinghamshire dragoon !