In taking such a low-bred view
Of what Lords Spiritual ought to do:-
All owing to the fact, poor men,
That Mother Church was modest then,
Nor knew what golden eggs her goose,
The Public, would in time produce.
One Pisgah peep at modern Durham
To far more lordly thoughts would stir 'em.
Resolved, that when we, Spiritual Lords,
Whose income just enough affords
To keep our Spiritual Lordships cozy,
Are told, by Antiquarians prosy,
How ancient Bishops cut up theirs,
Giving the poor the largest shares--
Our answer is, in one short word,
We think it pious, but absurd.
Those good men made the world their debtor,
But we, the Church reform'd, know better;
And, taking all that all can pay,
Balance th' account the other way.
Resolved, our thanks profoundly due are
To last month's Quarterly Reviewer,
Who proves (by arguments so clear
One sees how much he holds per year)
That England's Church, though out of date,
Must still be left to lie in state,
As dead, as rotten, and as grand as
The mummy of King Osymandyas,
All pickled snug-the brains drawn out1-
With costly cerements swathed about,-
And "Touch me not," those words terrific,
Scrawl'd o'er her in good hieroglyphic.
"Nec tu sperne piis venientia somnia portis :
Cum pia venerunt somnia, pondus habent."
PROPERT. lib. iv. eleg. 7.
As snug, on a Sunday eve, of late,
In his easy chair Sir Andrew sate,
Being much too pious, as every one knows,
To do aught, of a Sunday eve, but doze,
He dreamt a dream, dear, holy man,
And I'll tell you his dream as well as I can.
1 Part of the process of embalmment.
The Book of Sports drawn up by Bishop Moreton was first put forth in the reign of James I., 1618, and afterwards republished, at the advice of Laud, by Charles I., 1633, with an injunction that it should be "made public by order from the Bishops." We find it therein declared, that" for his good people's recreation, his Majesty's pleasure was, that after the
"For Sunday fun we never can fail,
"When the Church herself each sport points
out ;-
"There's May-games, archery, Whitsun-ale,
"And a May-pole high to dance about.
"Or, should we be for a pole hard driven,
"Some lengthy saint, of aspect fell,
"With his pockets on earth, and his nose in heaven, "Will do for a May-pole just as well.
"Then hurrah for the Bishops, hurrah! hurrah! "A week of work and a Sabbath of play "Make the poor man's life run merry away."
To Andy, who doesn't much deal in history,
This Sunday scene was a downright mystery;
And God knows where might have ended the joke,
But, in trying to stop the fiddles, he woke.
And the odd thing is (as the rumor goes)
That since that dream-which, one would suppose,
end of divine service they should not be disturbed, letted, or discouraged from any lawful recreations, such as dancing, either of men or women, archery for men, leaping, vaulting, or any such harmless recreations, nor having of May-games, Whitsun-ales, or Morris-dances, or setting up of May-poles, or other sports therewith used," &c.
Should have made his godly stomach rise,
Even more than ever, 'gainst Sunday pies-
He has view'd things quite with different eyes;
Is beginning to take, on matters divine,
Like Charles and his Bishops, the sporting line—
Is all for Christians jigging in pairs,
As an interlude 'twixt Sunday prayers;-
Nay, talks of getting Archbishop H—I—y
To bring in a Bill, enacting duly,
That all good Protestants, from this date,
May, freely and lawfully, recreate,
Of a Sunday eve, their spirits moody,
With Jack in the Straw, or Punch and Judy.
Oh far more proper and well-bred
To stick to writing books instead ;
And show the world how two Blue lovers
Can coalesce, like two book-covers,
(Sheep-skin, or calf, or such wise leather,)
Letter'd at back, and stitch'd together,
Fondly as first the binder fix'd 'em,
With naught but-literature betwixt 'em.
Air." Come live with me, and be my love."
COME Wed with me, and we will write,
My Blue of Blues, from morn till night.
Chased from our classic souls shall be
All thoughts of vulgar progeny;
And thou shalt walk through smiling rows
Of chubby duodecimos,
While I, to match thy products nearly,
Shall lie-in of a quarto yearly.
"Tis true, ev'n books entail some trouble;
But live productions give one double.
Correcting children is such bother,-
While printers' devils correct the other.
Just think, my own Malthusian dear,
How much more decent 'tis to hear
From male or female-as it may be-
"How is your book?" than "How's your baby?”
And, whereas physic and wet nurses
Do much exhaust paternal purses,
Our books, if rickety, may go
And be well dry-nursed in the Row;
And, when God wills to take them hence,
Are buried at the Row's expense.
Besides (as 'tis well proved by thee, In thy own Works, vol. 93.)
The march, just now, of population So much outstrips all moderation, That even prolific herring-shoals Keep pace not with our erring souls.
1 See "Ella of Garveloch."-Garveloch being a place where there was a large herring-fishery, but where, as we
"If it be the undergraduate season at which this rabies religiosa is to be so fearful, what security has Mr. G--lb-n against it at this moment, when his son is actually exposed to the full venom of an association with Dissenters ?"--The Times, March 25.
How sad a case!-just think of it-
If G-lb-n junior should be bit
By some insane Dissenter, roaming
Through Granta's halls, at large and foaming,
And with that aspect, ultra crabbed
Which marks Dissenters when they're rabid !
God only knows what mischiefs might
Result from this one single bite,
Or how the venom, once suck'd in,
Might spread and rage through kith and kin.
Mad folks, of all denominations,
First turn upon their own relations:
So that one G-lb-n, fairly bit,
Might end in maddening the whole kit,
Till, ah, ye gods, we'd have to rue
Our G-lb-n senior bitten too;
The Hychurchphobia in those veins,
Where Tory blood now redly reigns ;-
And that dear man, who now perceives
Salvation only in lawn sleeves,
Might, tainted by such coarse infection,
Run mad in th' opposite direction,
And think, poor man, 'tis only given
To linsey-woolsey to reach Heaven!
Just fancy what a shock 'twould be
Our G-lb-n in his fits to see,
Tearing into a thousand particles
His once loved Nine and Thirty Articles;
(Those Articles his friend, the Duke,'
For Gospel, t'other night, mistook ;)
Cursing cathedrals, deans, and singers-
Wishing the ropes might hang the ringers-
Pelting the church with blasphemies,
Even worse than Parson B-v-rl—y's ;--
And ripe for severing Church and State,
Like any creedless reprobate,
Or like that class of Methodists
Prince Waterloo styles " Atheists!"
But 'tis too much-the Muse turns pale, And o'er the picture drops a veil, Praying, God save the G-lb-rns all From mad Dissenters, great and small!
1 The Duke of Wellington, who styled them the "Articles of Christianity."
"THE longer one lives, the more one learns,"
Said I, as off to sleep I went,
Bemused with thinking of Tithe concerns,
And reading a book, by the Bishop of FERNS,'
On the Irish Church Establishment.
But, lo, in sleep, not long I lay,
When Fancy her usual tricks began,
And I found myself bewitch'd away
To a goodly city in Hindostan-
A city, where he, who dares to dine
On aught but rice, is deem'd a sinner;
Where sheep and kine are held divine,
And, accordingly-never dress'd for dinner.
"But how is this?" I wond'ring cried—
As I walk'd that city, fair and wide,
And saw, in every marble street,
A row of beautiful butchers' shops"What means, for men who don't eat meat, "This grand display of loins and chops?" In vain I ask'd-'twas plain to see That nobody dared to answer me.
And my slumber fled, and my dream was sped, And I found I was lying snug in bed,
With my nose in the Bishop of FERNS's book.
A letter having been addressed to a very distinguished personage, requesting him to become the Patron of this Orange Club, a polite answer was forthwith returned, of which we have been fortunate enough to obtain a copy.
Brimstone-hall, September 1, 1828.
Private.-LORD BELZEBUB presents
To the Brunswick Club his compliments,
And much regrets to say that he
Cannot, at present, their Patron be.
In stating this, Lord Belzebub
Assures, on his honor, the Brunswick Club,
That 'tisn't from any lukewarm lack
Of zeal or fire he thus holds back-
As even Lord Coal' himself is not
For the Orange party more red-hot :
But the truth is, till their Club affords
A somewhat decenter show of Lords,
And on its list of members gets
A few less rubbishy Baronets,
Lord Belzebub must beg to be
Excused from keeping such company.
Who the devil, he humbly begs to know,
Are Lord Gl-nd-ne, and Lord D-nlo?
Or who, with a grain of sense, would go
To sit and be bored by Lord M-yo?
What living creature-except his nurse—
For Lord M-ntc-sh-l cares a curse,
Or thinks 'twould matter if Lord M-sk-rry
Were t'other side of the Stygian ferry?
Breathes there a man in Dublin town,
Who'd give but half of half-a-crown
To save from drowning my Lord R―thd―ne,
Or who wouldn't also gladly hustle in
Lords R-d-n, B—nd—n, C-le, and J-c-l-n ?
In short, though, from his tenderest years,
Accustom'd to all sorts of Peers,
Lord Belzebub much questions whether
He ever yet saw, mix'd together,
As 'twere in one capacious tub,
Such a mess of noble silly-bub
As the twenty Peers of the Brunswick Club.
"Tis therefore impossible that Lord B.
Could stoop to such society,
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