"I'll try," says king Crack-then 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!

WHAT'S MY THOUGHT LIKE?

Quest. Why is a pump like V-sc-nt C-stl-r-gh?
Answ. Because it is a slender thing of wood,
That up and down its awkward arm doth sway,
And coolly spout and spout and spout away,
In one weak, washy, everlasting flood!

EPIGRAM.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A CATHOLIC DELEGATE AND HIS R-Y-L
H-GHN-SS THE D-E OF C-B-L-D.

SAID his Highness to Ned, with that grim face of his,

66

"Why refuse us the Veto, dear Catholic Neddy?”.

Because, Sir," said Ned, looking full in his phiz,

"You're forbidding enough, in all conscience, already!"

WREATHS FOR THE MINISTERS.

AN ANACREONTIC.

HITHER, Flora, queen of flowers!

Haste thee from Old Brompton's bowers

Or (if sweeter that abode)

From the King's well-odour'd road,

Where each little nursery bud

Breathes the dust and quaffs the mud !

Hither come, and gaily twine

Brightest herbs and flowers of thine

First you must then, willy-nilly,
Fetch me many an orange lily-
Orange of the darkest dye
Irish G-ff-rd can supply!
Choose me out the longest sprig,
And stick it in old Eld-n's wig!
Find me next a poppy posy,
Type of his harangues so dosy,
Garland gaudy, dull, and cool
For the head of L-v-rp-1!-
"Twill console his brilliant brows
For that loss of laurel boughs
Which they suffer'd (what a pity!)
On the road to Paris city.

Next, our C-stl-r-gh to crown,
Bring me, from the county Down,

Wither'd shamrocks, which have been
Gilded o'er to hide the green-

(Such as H-df-t brought away
From Pall Mall last Patrick's-day)+-
Stitch the garland through and through
With shabby threads of every hue-
And as, goddess!-entre nous-
His Lordship loves (though best of men)
A little torture, now and then,

Crimp the leaves, thou first of syrens!
Crimp them with thy curling-irons.

That's enough-away, away-
Had I leisure, I could say

How the oldest rose that grows

Must be pluck'd to deck old R-e—

How the Doctor's brow should smile
Crown'd with wreaths of camomile!

But time presses--to thy taste

I leave the rest, so, prithee, haste!

*The ancients, in like manner, crowned their lares or household gods. (See Juvenal, Sat. ix., v. 138.)

+ Certain tinsel imitations of the shamrock, which are distributed by the servants of C-n House every Patrick's-day.

Lord Sidmouth,

EPIGRAM.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A DOWAGER AND HER MAID ON THE NIGHT OF

LORD Y-RM-TH'S FETE.

"I WANT the Court-Guide," said my lady, "to look

If the house, Seymour Place, be at 30 or 20."

"We've lost the Court-Guide, ma'am; but here's the Red Book, Where you'll find, I daresay, Seymour PLACES in Plenty!"

HORACE, ODE XI. LIB. II.

FREELY TRANSLATED BY G. R.

COME, Y-rm-th, my boy, never trouble your brains
About what your old croney,

The Emperor Boney,

Is doing or brewing on Muscovy's plains;

Nor tremble, my lad, at the state of our granaries;
Should there come famine,

Still plenty to cram in

You always shall have, my dear lord of the Stannaries !

Brisk let us revel, while revel we may,
For the gay bloom of fifty soon passes away,

And then people get fat,

And infirm, and--all that,

And a wig, I confess, so clumsily sits,

That it frightens the little Loves out of their wits.
Thy whiskers, too, Y-rm-th!-alas, even they,
Though so rosy they burn,

Too quickly must turn

(What a heart-breaking change for thy whiskers!) to Grey.
Then why, my Lord Warden! oh! why should you fidget
Your mind about matters you don't understand?
Or why should you write yourself down for an idiot,
Because "you," forsooth, "have the pen in your hand?"

Think, think how much better
Than scribbling a letter,
(Which both you and I

Should avoid, by the by,)

How much pleasanter 'tis to sit under the bust

Of old Charley, my friend here, and drink like a new one; While Charley looks sulky and frowns at me, just

As the ghost in the pantomime frowns at Don Juan!

To crown us, Lord Warden!
In C-mb-rl-nd's garden

Grows plenty of monkshood in venomous sprigs;
While otto of roses

Refreshing all noses

Shall sweetly exhale from our whiskers and wigs.

What youth of the household will cool our noyau
In that streamlet delicious,
That down midst the dishes,
All full of good fishes
Romantic doth flow ?-

Or who will repair

Unto M-ch-r Sq- -e

And see if the gentle Marchesa be there?

Go, bid her haste hither,

And let her bring with her

The newest No-Popery sermon that's going-
Oh! let her come, with her dark tresses flowing,
All gentle and juvenile, curly and gay,

In the manner of-Ackermann's dresses for May!

HORACE, ODE XXII. LIB. I.

FREELY TRANSLATED BY LORD ELD-N.

THE man who keeps a conscience pure,
(If not his own, at least his Prince's,)
Through toil and danger walks secure,
Looks big and black, and never winces!

No want has he of sword or dagger
Cock'd hat or ringlets of Geramb;

Though Peers may laugh, and Papists swagger,
He does not care

Whether midst Irish chairmen going,

Or through St Giles's alleys dim,

'Mid drunken Sheelahs, blasting, blowing,

No matter, 'tis all one to him.

For instance, I, one evening late,
Upon a gay vacation sally,

Singing the praise of Church and state,
Got up, at last, to Cranbourne Alley.

When lo! an Irish papist darted

Across my path, gaunt, grim, and big—

I did but frown, and off he started,
Scared at me even without my wig!
Yet a more fierce and raw-boned dog
Goes not to Mass in Dublin city,
Nor shakes his brogue o'er Allen's Bog,
Nor spouts in Catholic committee !
Oh! place me midst O'Rourkes, O'Tooles,
The ragged royal blood of Tara;
Or place me where Dick M-rt-n rules
The houseless wilds of Connemara;

Of Church and state I'll warble still,

Though even Dick M-rt-n's self should grumble; Sweet Church and state, like Jack and Jill,

So lovingly upon a hill—

Ah! ne'er like Jack and Jill to tumble

EPIGRAM.

FROM THE FRENCH.

"I NEVER give a kiss," says Prue,

"To naughty man, for I abhor it."

She will not give a kiss, 'tis true;

She'll take one though, and thank you for it!

ON A SQUINTING POETESS.

To no one Muse does she her glance confine,
But has an eye, at once, to all the nine!

ΤΟ

"Moria pur quando vuol, non è bisogna mutar ni faccia ni voce per esser un Angelo."

DIE when you will, you need not wear
At heaven's court a form more fair

Than beauty here on earth has given;
'Keep but the lovely looks we see-
The voice we hear-and you will be
An angel ready-made for heaven!