S-y B-y, God bless him! subscribed all his sense; The Gospels Lord G-r flung down in a boast; For the Black Wig and her Character white. Bald B-d, his still balder eloquence gave; The Black Wig and her Character white. Big N-t bestow'd all his graces upon her, young And Hume gave-a notice, and Lambton gave-tongue By Fergusson backed, Michael Angelo Taylor Charles C-t and H-t their gentility join, To the Black Wig and her Character white. But some with whom nominal morals ran low, To the Black Wig and her Character white. For the Black Wig and her Character white. But as to the rest it were tedious to sing, To the Black Wig and her Character white. Such talents, such virtues, how much they surpass For the Black Wig and her Character white. But when the great Lady was told of the kind For her Black Wig and her Character white. Of my Black Wig and my Character white." CATHOLIC EMANCIPATION. Tune-" St. Patrick's Day in the Morning." A PLAGUE on these Papists, they'll make such a pother, What though we give them Army-Navy- Till Judges we've made 'em ; And, when they're appointed, and duly anointed, They'll tell us, that still they're oppressed-disappointed, It is not just simply the sitting in Parliament, Ever can satisfy suitors like these; The same sort of favour Guiscard to great Harley meant, Papists would grant to the nation. Can we believe their mild avowals Can we believe their qualified oaths— The fifth of November, With Percy, and Catesby, the Parliament gates by, Trust not, my friends, to their cringing and lowliness: Then, with their signs, and shrines, and shrivings, With vespers and matins, And saints in rich satins, They 'll touch up their Lordships of Durham and Winchester, London, and Ely, and Archy of York; They'll light up the fires, and make their hot pincers, sir, England's poor Church will be martyr'd. Every Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday, He who eats mutton is undone: Then, on our knees to Saints in velvet, Kissing the stumps they stand upon, Cutting strange capers, And sticking up tapers, And, just as the vespers chime in with their merry tricks, Domine Francis drops in for a call; And takes us to Smithfield, to see a few heretics, Burnt for the glory of London ! Then, upon Sundays, and ev'ry church festival, Singing, and dancing, and op'ras and plays, Will drive the folks mad, while the Priests, as the test of all, Protestant Parsons whipp'd and scoff'd at, A night-joke to dish up, They'll broil you a Bishop, And then pay their Priest; for, in their road to Heaven pence His Rev'rence sends off to Rome two and sevenpence, All this has occurr'd, and been found rather troublesome— Mary and James had a taste for the thing; And though, in these times, clever speeches may bubble some, Read about Ridley, Cranmer, Holdgate, Like Gardner and Bonner; And then let us ask, why we seek alteration The boast of our country for ages? Ask Mr. Madocks, or Henry Bate Dudley, And created good land, where there nothing but mud lay Ask them if, after all their trouble, They'd knock down their labours, To please a few neighbours, And let in the flood to destroy all their cabbages, Then Britons, since well with your Creed has the law fitted, Make such a free restitution ? Think of the whips, the stakes, the tortures— Is but the beginning; Then this is the time for Old England's defenders THE LAMENT. On Lord Castlereagh's calling upon his Friends to attend regularly, and not to give or accept Invitations to Dinner. HARK! I hear the sounds of sorrow Fill each office corridor; Castlereagh cries—" From to-morrow, Statesmen, ye must dine no more! |