S-y B-y, God bless him! subscribed all his sense;
Of loyalty G-y made a gallant expense;

The Gospels Lord G-r flung down in a boast;
And E-e gave nobly-himself, as a toast;

For the Black Wig and her Character white.

Bald B-d, his still balder eloquence gave;
And B-n thought that his coup d'œil might save

The Black Wig and her Character white.

Big N-t bestow'd all his graces upon her,
Ned E-e his credit, and G— his honour :
The H -s their sense-both the old and the

young

And Hume gave-a notice, and Lambton gave-tongue
For the Black Wig and her Character white.

By Fergusson backed, Michael Angelo Taylor
Suppos'd that his statesman-like views might avail her
Black Wig and her Character white.

Charles C-t and H-t their gentility join,
And G―ll was ready his visage to coin;
And C-y, of other donations bereft,
Subscribed all the courage that Warrender left,

To the Black Wig and her Character white.

But some with whom nominal morals ran low,
Contriv❜d other modes their devotion to shew,

To the Black Wig and her Character white.
B-t gave the bond he recovered from Scott-
And W―n the thanks in the field he had got―
And L-r a visiting card of his rib's-
And F―y a draft upon-Howard and Gibbs!

For the Black Wig and her Character white.

But as to the rest it were tedious to sing,
How they sacrificed love of their Country and King,

To the Black Wig and her Character white.

Such talents, such virtues, how much they surpass
B-g's stock, G-ll's copper, or L-n's brass!
Endow'd with such treasures, who would not dispense
With the paltry account of pounds, shillings, and pence,

For the Black Wig and her Character white.

But when the great Lady was told of the kind
Of efforts the Whigs made for raising the wind

For her Black Wig and her Character white.
She rose in a fury, and roar'd out, "odd zounds!
Run, Vizard, secure me Lord Liverpool's pounds;
Of the virtues of Whigs I have more than my share,
And their talents and truth are not worth half a hair

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,
When once they've converted their Bill to an Act,
They'll always be teazing for something or other,
Concessions no quiet will purchase;

What though we give them Army-Navy-
What though we give them Law and State;
We ne'er shall dissuade 'em,

Till Judges we've made 'em ;

And, when they're appointed, and duly anointed,
Be-wigg'd and be-rob'd, with a Catholic oath,

They'll tell us, that still they're oppressed-disappointed,
And must have a touch at our Churches.

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—
Don't we remember

The fifth of November,

With Percy, and Catesby, the Parliament gates by,
And Desmond, Tom Winter, and Garnet and Fawkes,
And Digby, and Rookwood, who all lost their pates, by
Their genius for assassination.

Trust not, my friends, to their cringing and lowliness:
(Much like the Queen's in her note to the King)
Set them once free, and for praise from his holiness,
England's tranquillity's bartered.

Then, with their signs, and shrines, and shrivings,
Starving on fish, and stews, and eggs,

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,
Well must we fast by the rules of the Church;
What's meat on the former, is death on the latter day.

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,
Give them a holy ablution:

Protestant Parsons whipp'd and scoff'd at,
Quakers and Methodists thump'd and ston'd.

A night-joke to dish up,

They'll broil you a Bishop,

And then pay their Priest; for, in their road to Heaven pence
Serve them as well as at Knightsbridge or Kew:

His Rev'rence sends off to Rome two and sevenpence,
Home comes a full absolution.

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,
Turn to Old History's pages.

Read about Ridley, Cranmer, Holdgate,
Grey-headed Latimer, Ferrar, and Hauk,
With persons of honour,

Like Gardner and Bonner;

And then let us ask, why we seek alteration
In laws, which have yielded us quiet and peace,
Or fly in the face of a wise Reformation,

The boast of our country for ages?

Ask Mr. Madocks, or Henry Bate Dudley,
Or any of those who have stopp'd out the sea,

And created good land, where there nothing but mud lay
Expos'd to the swell of the ocean—

Ask them if, after all their trouble,
All their expense, and all their care,

They'd knock down their labours,

To please a few neighbours,

And let in the flood to destroy all their cabbages,
Which they'd been toiling for years to keep out,
And open the door to its roarings and ravages?
Lord! how they'd laugh at the notion!

Then Britons, since well with your Creed has the law fitted,
Why should you change what you'll hardly amend?
Or, why, of the rights men have legally forfeited,

Make such a free restitution ?

Think of the whips, the stakes, the tortures—
Think of the thumb-screws, faggots, and flames:
The point they are winning,

Is but the beginning;

Then this is the time for Old England's defenders
To make a firm stand for the good of the cause;
And, while we've a King, let no Popes or Pretenders
Lay hands on our dear Constitution!

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!