Whose head's so full of all sorts of wares,
That a brother imp, old Smugden, swears
If I had but of law a little smatt'ring,
I'd then be perfect'—which is flatt'ring.

My skill as a linguist all must know
Who met me abroad some months ago;
(And heard me abroad exceedingly, too,
In the moods and tenses of parlez-vous,)
When, as old Chambaud's shade stood mute,
I spoke such French to the Institute
As puzzled those learned Thebans much,
To know if 'twas Sanscrit or High Dutch,
And might have pass'd with th' unobserving
As one of the unknown tongues of Irving.
As to my talent for ubiquity,
There's nothing like it in all antiquity.
Like Mungo, (my peculiar care,)
"I'm here, I'm dere, I'm ebery where."
If any one's wanted to take the chair,
Upon any subject, anywhere,

Just look around, and-Pack is there!
When slaughter's at hand, your bird of prey
Is never known to be out of the way;
And wherever mischief's to be got,
There's Puck instanter, on the spot.

Only find me in negus and applause,
And I'm your man for any cause.
If wrong the cause, the more my delight;
But I don't object to it, ev'n when right,
If I only can vex some old friend by't;
There's D-rh-m, for instance ;-to worry him
Fills up my cup of bliss to the brim!

(NOTE BY THE EDITOR.)

Those who are anxious to run a muck
Can't do better than join with Puck;
They'll find him bon diable-spite of his phiz-
And, in fact, his great ambition is,
While playing old Puck in first-rate style,
To be thought Robin Goodfellow all the while.

POLICE REPORTS.

CASE OF IMPOSTURE.

AMONG other stray flashmen, disposed of, this week, Was a youngster, named St-nl-y, genteelly

connected,

1 Verbatim, as said. This tribute is only equalled by that of Talleyrand to his medical friend, Dr. —: "Il se connoit en tout; et même un peu en médecine."

2 Song in "The Padlock."

Might then all be cull'd from th' episcopal

benches;

While colonels in black would afford some relief

OF THE

TWO HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT.

1 En fait d'amour, trop même n'est pas assez.-Barbier de Seville.

An exact and natʼral representation

• Grant of Ireland to Henry II. by Pope Adrian.

And the Company hope yet to witness the hour,

TO DAN.

FROM tongue to tongue the rumor flew ;
All ask'd, aghast, "Is't true? is't true?"

But none knew whether 'twas fact or fable:
And still the unholy rumor ran,
From Tory woman to Tory man,

Though none to come at the truth was ableTill, lo, at last, the fact came out, The horrible fact, beyond all doubt,

That Dan had dined at the Viceroy's table; Had flesh'd his Popish knife and fork In the heart of th' Establish'd mutton and pork!

Who can forget the deep sensation

pence;

And that not even Phoebus himself, in our day,
Could get up a lay without first an outlay—
Beg to add, as our literature soon may compare,
In its quick make and vent, with our Birmingham

ware,

And it doesn't at all matter in either of these lines,
How sham is the article, so it but shines,-
We keep authors ready, all perch'd, pen in hand,
To write off, in any given style, at command.
No matter what bard, be he living or dead,2
Ask a work from his pen, and 'tis done soon as said:
There being, on th' establishment, six Walter Scotts,
One capital Wordsworth, and Southeys in lots;
Three choice Mrs. Nortons, all singing like syrens,
While most of our pallid young clerks are Lord
Byrons.

Deans, rectors, curates, all agreed,

If Dan was allow'd at the Castle to feed,
'Twas clearly all up with the Protestant creed!
There hadn't, indeed, such an apparition

Been heard of, in Dublin, since that day
When, during the first grand exhibition

Of Don Giovanni, that naughty play, There appear'd, as if raised by necromancers, An extra devil among the dancers! Yes-ev'ry one saw, with fearful thrill, That a devil too much had join'd the quadrille And sulphur was smelt, and the lamps let fall A grim, green light o'er the ghastly ball, And the poor sham devils didn't like it at all; For, they knew from whence th' intruder had come, Though he left, that night, his tail at home.

call,)

And ***s and ***s, (for whom no call at all.)

In short, whosoe'er the last "Lion" may be,

We've a Bottom who'll copy his roar3 to a T, And so well, that not one of the buyers who've got 'em

Can tell which is lion, and which only Bottom.

N. B.-The company, since they set up in this line, Have moved their concern, and are now at the sign Of the Muse's Velocipede, Fleet Street, where all Who wish well to the scheme are invited to call.

1 ""Tis money makes the mare to go."

2 We have lodgings apart, for our posthumous people,

As we find that, if left with the live ones, they keep ill.

To the dinner that, some weeks since, took place. With the difference slight of fiend and man,

It shows what a nest of Popish sinners That city must be, where the devil and Dan

May thus drop in, at quadrilles and dinners!

But, mark the end of these foul proceedings,
These demon hops and Popish feedings.
Some comfort 'twill be-to those, at least,

Who've studied this awful dinner question-
To know that Dan, on the night of that feast,
Was seized with a dreadful indigestion;
That envoys were sent, post-hraste, to his priest,
To come and absolve the suffering sinner,
For eating so much at a heretic dinner;

And some good people were even afraid
That Peel's old confectioner-still at the trade-

Had poison'd the Papist with orangeade.

NEW HOSPITAL FOR SICK LITERATI.

WITH all humility we beg

To inform the public, that Tom Tegg-
Known for his spunky speculations,
In buying up dead reputations,
And, by a mode of galvanizing
Which, all must own, is quite surprising,
Making dead authors move again,
As though they still were living men ;--
All this, too, managed, in a trice,

By those two magic words, "Half Price,"
Which brings the charm so quick about,
That worn-out poets, left without
A second foot whereon to stand,
Are made to go at second hand ;-
"Twill please the public, we repeat,
To learn that Tegg, who works this feat,
And, therefore, knows what care it needs
To keep alive Fame's invalids,

as oped an Hospital, in town,
For cases of knock'd-up renown-
Falls, fractures, dangerous Epic fits,

(By some call'd Cantos,) stabз from wits;
And, of all wounds for which they're nursed,
Dead cuts from publishers, the worst ;-
All these, and other such fatalities,
That happen to frail immortalities,
By Tegg are so expertly treated,

That oft-times, when the cure's completed,
The patient's made robust enough
To stand a few more rounds of puff,
Till, like the ghosts of Dante's lay,
He's puff'd into thin air away!

As titled poets (being phenomenons)

Don't like to mix with low and common 'uns, Tegg's Hospital has separate wards,

Express for literary lords,

Where prose-peers, of immoderate length,

And oft, not only stints, for spite.
The patients in their copy-right,
But that, on being call'd in lately
To two sick poets, suffering greatly,
This vaticidal Doctor sent them
So strong a dose of Jeremy Bentham,
That one of the poor bards but cried,
"Oh, Jerry, Jerry!" and then died;
While t'other, though less stuff was given,
Is on his road, 'tis fear'd, to heaven!

Of this event, howe'er unpleasant,
Tegg means to say no more at present,—
Intending shortly to prepare

A statement of the whole affair,
With full accounts, at the same time,
Of some late cases, (prose and rhyme,)
Subscribed with every author's name,
That's now on the Sick List of Fame.

RELIGION AND TRADE

"Sir Robert Peel believed it was necessary to originate all respecting religion and trade in a Committee of the House." -Church Extension, May 22, 1830.

SAY, who was the wag, indecorously witty, Who, first in a statute, this libel convey'd; And thus slyly referr'd to the self-same committee, As matters congenial, Religion and Trade?

Oh surely, my Ph-llp-ts, 'twas thou didst the deed;

For none but thyself, or some pluralist brother, Accustom❜d to mix up the craft with the creed, Could bring such a pair thus to twin with each

other.

And poets, whom their friends despair of,

Are-put to bed and taken care of.

Tegg begs to contradict a story,

Now current both with Whig and Tory,
That Doctor W-rb-t-n, M. P.,
Well known for his antipathy,
His deadly hate, good man, to all
The race of poets, great and small-
So much, that he's been heard to own,
He would most willingly cut down
The holiest groves on Pindus' mount,
To turn the timber to account!-
The story actually goes, that he
Prescribes at Tegg's Infirmary;

and

That the shrine and the shop seem to have some