Part 12

Then came the premature wife of her pen-man, Her guide, her adviser--in short, Mrs. Brougham, And then the spare rib of Go-sin-no-more Denman, And sweet Mrs. Williams, and young Mrs. Hume; Old Barber, and Taylor, And Hood, could not fail her. But the Muse can't detail, or Discuss what remains;-- Except Mrs. Wilde, Who, for roast and for boil'd, While as cook-maid she toil'd, Was the pride of Devaynes.

The Earl-King, fearing the tumult should ever end, Sends her his brother, while he keeps away; Honour'd by courtesy, by his gown reverend, But neither by nature, came sanctified Grey, With the Norwich Archdeacon, Who thinks he may speak on, Because, like a beacon, His head is so light; And sea-beaten Madocks, And some other sad dogs, Who (like stinking haddocks) By rotting grow bright.

Damsels of Marybone, deck'd out in articles, Borrow'd of brokers for shillings and pence; The eye of vulgarity any thing smart tickles; Drabs love a ride at another's expence; So swarming like loaches, In ten hackney coaches, They make their approaches And pull at the bell; And then they flaunt brave in, Preceded by Craven, And, clean and new shaven, Topographical Gell.

Next came a motley assemblage of what I call Mummers, and mountebanks, wildly array'd; Hod-men, and coal-heavers, landmen and nautical, Tag-rag and bobtail, a strange masquerade! A rout of sham sailors, Escap'd from their jailors, As sea-bred as tailors, In Shropshire or Wilts: But mark Oldi's smile and hers, Greeting, as Highlanders, Half a score Mile-Enders, Shivering in kilts!

Noel and Moore are the pink of her quality, Judge what must be the more mean partisans! What sweepings of kennels--what scums of rascality-- Hired and attired to enact artisans; Sham painters, and stainers, Smiths, coopers, cordwainers, And glaziers--chief gainers, In such a turmoil, Though chandlers and joiners, And forgers and coiners, And pocket-purloiners, All share in the spoil.

Verdant green-grocers, all mounted on Jack-asses, (Lately called Guildfords, in honour of Fred,) Sweet nymphs of Billingsgate, tipsy as Bacchuses, Roll'd in like porpoises, heels over head! And the better to charm her, Three tinkers in armour, All hired by Harmer, Brave Thistlewood's friend; Those stout men of metal, Who think they can settle The State, if a kettle They're able to mend.

Next come the presents--Whitechapel (where Jewsbury) Sends needles to hem Dr. Fellowes's lawn; Cracknells from Cowes--sweet simnels from Shrewsbury-- Rump-steaks from Dublin--and collars of brawn-- A pig--and a blanket-- A sturgeon from Stangate-- The donors all thank-ed By Royal desire! Old Parr gave his benison To Parkins's venison, But the pamphlet of Tennyson He threw in the fire.

Last came the Lack-wit address of Sir Bunbury, Bearding the Crown with his sinecure wrath! 'Twould look, I fear, too like a libel, to unbury All the exploits of this Knight of the Bath: From service retreated; By Wilson out-prated; Like him, self-created; His star is his sin! It's splendour is lost in The honours of Austin, And Hownam, who crost in With faint-away Flynn!

And now, e'er I send off my song to the town sellers, ('Twill fetch rather more than the speeches of Hume,) We'll give one huzza to her pure privy Councillors, Lushington, Williams, Wilde, Denman and Brougham. With Vizard and Cobbett, And Hunt who would mob it, And Cam who would job it As Dad did before; With Waithman the prate-man, And Pearson the plate man, And Matthew the great man, Who found us the _hare_.[23]

THE CITY CONCERT.

"Paulo Minora canemus."

_Tune_--"Alley Croker."

When Caroline, the great and big, Was feasted in the City, Sir, United Radical and Whig, In malice or in pity, Sir, Invited every Cockney dame The Royal cause to lift on; No matter what her rank or name, If she had but a shift on. Oh! such shifts! the flaunting belles of Drury Are neat to those of Crooked Lane, Ram Alley, and Old Jewry.

A few there were, not so obscure, Who boasted of clean linen; But they, as all their friends assure, Were driven by their men, in; Who thought that after such delay The Queen would be extinguish-ed, Unless the blustering _Times_ could say, That some few were "distinguish-ed." Oh, poor _Times_! how sad a scrape you have got in, Whose proud distinction is at best, 'twixt addled eggs and rotten.

To face at once so rank a crowd The Queen was thought unable, So Thorp, he begg'd to be allow'd To hand her to a table, Where wine, and something better still, That smelt like Maraschino, Might, if administer'd with skill, Give courage to the Queen Oh. Oh the Queen! the sober Queen of Britain, She very soon was in a state an armed chair to sit on.

When safely seated in this chair, The females were paraded, And like a showman, the Lord Mayor, The honours of the day did. Mrs. Thorp herself came first, ("Her maiden name was Twigs, ma'am,") Who curtseying low, cried, "May I burst, But I adore your wig, Ma'am. Oh your wig! your wig so black and curl'd, Ma'am, That like the whiskers of a Jew it looks for all the world, Ma'am."

The Queen, who thought this speech a scoff, Exclaim'd, "Mon Dieu quel fardeau." So Mrs. Mayor was hurried off, And up flounced Dame Ricardo. Quoth Thorp, "This lady whom you view, Her head so lofty carrying, Is one, whom an Oporto Jew Cut off his son for marrying." Oh the son! his figure would not please ill One whose taste might chance to lie between an owl and weasel.

The Queen, at seeing Mrs. Sykes, Was ready to affront her; No German Princess more dislikes These gentry of the counter. "But mean and vulgar as you think her," Said Thorp, "you needs must thank her, Because her dad, though once a tinker, Did become a banker." Oh, the dad! fit sire of such a filly, At the race-ball at Doncaster they call'd her orange-lily.

Next Mrs. Wilde the presence graced, The splendour to increase, Ma'am; "Though lowly born, she has a taste, And been, like you, in Greece, Ma'am; And though she wed a peaceful squire, Was for a tar more fitted, For she is used to standing fire, And was brought up at Spit-head." Oh, the fire of poor Devaynes's kitchen, From whose hot coals she stole the blush that makes her so bewitching.

Scowling Williams next produces What he calls his family; It is a mode he oddly chooses Down our throats to cram a lie; His real wife is safe in bed, Not dreaming of such folly; Perhaps the fellow, in her stead, Has brought his Vauxhall dolly. Oh, the drab! her crime is doubly heinous, Who could condescend to be that yellow Vulcan's Venus?

So far so well; but now the Quire For harmony enlisted, "Threw all the fat into the fire," (As Mrs. Wilde express'd it.) The blundering dogs began to sing, With all their might and energies, "God preserve our noble King, And confound his enemies!" Oh, the Brutes! the Queen was well nigh fainting, And would have blush'd, if one could blush beneath three coats of painting.

In anger, for her coach she roar'd, And into it, when ready, She trundled, handed by my Lord, And followed by my Lady. And so they drove home in the dark, The beau and his two graces, Like (as a florist might remark) Under a Hood two faces. Oh, the Hood! convenient garb for lovers, For none but they can truly say how many sins it covers.

INVITATIONS TO DINNER.

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!

"No more let's see each office man on Foot, about the hour of seven, Teazing Arbuthnot and Duncannon, To find a pair until eleven.

"No more let's hear Sir George, or Binning, Or Huskisson, or Wellesley Pole, Hinting, in sounds so soft and winning, That soup and fish are apt to cool.

"Let Michael spread, in Privy-Gardens, The board for Fergusson and Co.; Let Sefton's cook exhaust his lardings; They but allure away the foe.

"But some there are who never dine, (Who ne'er are ask'd to dine, at least,) Who swallow Ayles's tea like wine, And reckon Bellamy's a feast.

"They can abjure risolles and pâtés, And we must imitate their powers; Besides, they keep their vigils gratis; We are paid for keeping ours.

"But, Placemen! if ye heed my summons, A mental feast I shall prepare; Our House shall truly be, of Commons, And Rickman's roll a bill of fare.

"Ley spreads upon the spacious table A cloth--(no matter what its hue), The Chaplain, fast as he is able, Says grace, and bids us all fall to.

"Without four soups, I should be loth Such splendid guests to entertain; So Western shall be Barley-broth, And Wood a _Potage à la Reine_!

"Mulligatawney, or Scotch porridge, Either, Mackintosh may be; And--(not his merits to disparage), Spring Rice is _Printanier au ris_.

"For fish--that bench the Speaker's left on Out-rivals Groves', to all beholders; No one can see my good Lord Sefton But thinks of a cod's head and shoulders!

"Brougham's crooked shifts, and talents boasted, His slippery tricks no more conceal: Dragg'd into light, cut up, and roasted, What is he but spitch-cock'd eel?

"Calvert is Salmon--on a dish Ne'er lay a thicker or a rounder; Palmer's an undoubted fish, And flat enough to be a flounder.

"Sir Ronald's Lobster, if you crack His scarlet shell and straggling claws; Old Markham is a muddy Jack; And Warre and Davis Shrimps for sauce.

"Of Flesh and Fowl, too, there are plenty:-- Taylor is chick for Fricasees; Coke's Norfolk bustard may content ye; Rutlandshire supplies us Geese!

"Nugent would a meal afford one Who liked Calves-head without the brain; Rump-steaks we'll slice from generous Gordon, There 'tis cut and come again!

"Creevey's Tripe, unsavoury stuff, Fit meat alone for dog or cat he; Henry Bennett is a Puff; And Ossulston a _petit pâté_.

"Hobhouse is Cow-heel--which to cram Would need a true Saint Giles's taste; We'll put aside that dish of Lamb, Too delicate for such a feast.

"Grant is a Sheep's pate broil'd and singed, And none more empty or more hot is; Hume is a monstrous bore's-head, fringed And garnish'd round with many a nottice.

"Yorkshire puddings, rich in grease, Are the types of Sykes and Wyvill; Guise's brains are Gloucester cheese; Peppery Lamberton is a devil!

"Parnell's a potato, mealy, Thick, as ever Ireland grew; Newport's butter-milk; and Heley Hutchinson's an Irish-stew.

"For the rest, as housewives tell us, How they serve their broken trash-- Wilson, Bernal, Moore, and Ellice, Make an economic Hash!

"Come, then, hungry friends, fall to 't, And, if patiently ye dine, Kind Liverpool shall find ye fruit, And jovial Bathurst choose your wine!"

VACATION REMINISCENCES; OR, WHIG OPERATIONS UP TO EASTER.

_Tune_-"Bow, wow, wow."

A pack of Hounds of Whiggish breed, who sought to get their name up, And all throw off in gallant style whene'er they put the game up, At Brookes's met to form their plans "In vulgum voces spargere"-- Not Brookes's Club, as heretofore, but Brookes's great Menagerie. Bow, wow, wow, Tol de riddle, tol de riddle, Bow, wow, wow.

When "loaves and fishes" form'd the only object of the chase, Sir, No dogs had better noses, or could go a better pace, Sir; And all excell'd in "giving tongue" whene'er they took their station, To growl about the grievances of this unhappy nation. Bow, wow, wow.

Small Bennet, Lushington, and Wood, engaged to raise the ghost of A certain Royal Funeral, already made the most of; While Wilson, in his grief at being laid upon the shelf, Sir, Thought the most important subject for discussion was--Himself, Sir. Bow, wow, wow.

Says Joseph Hume, "Though Croker's cuts have made an alter'd mon o' me, I'll still be foremost in the throng for preaching up economy; I'll hunt down all the charges in our armies and our navies"-- "And I will be your whipper-in," cries gallant Colonel Davies. Bow, wow, wow.

Then Curwen would repeal the tax on tallow, cheese, or leather. Says Calcraft, "I've a better plan, and let us pull together; Vansittart means to ease the Malt, so let us work the Salt Tax-- If Salt should be the word with him--why then we'll try the Malt Tax." Bow, wow, wow.

Young Normanby--surprising change!--the motley party graces, And wars against his flesh and blood, to prate at useless places; And Hobhouse swears that every place and placeman he will bark at, Except the first Commissioner for Nabob's debts at Arcot. Bow, wow, wow.

There's Joseph Yorke, while he a Lord of Admiralty flourish'd, No patriotic schemes of close retrenchment ever nourish'd; But since, O most unlucky day! his "stern was to the board room," He sternly vows for idle Lords we cannot now afford room. Bow, wow, wow.

Then Calvert, who, of course, opposes all unfair monopolies, Steps forth to regulate the sale of Bread in the metropolis. "The poor," he says, "shall never have their quartern loaf too dear, Sir, If they will only hold their tongues about the price of Beer, Sir." Bow, wow, wow.

Says Creevy, "I must needs confess, when I was at the India Board, I ne'er did much but read the news, or loll upon the window-board; But since my hopes of lolling there again are all demolish'd, I'll prove the whole concern so bad, it ought to be abolish'd." Bow, wow, wow.

"I care not who," says Lawyer Brougham, "from place or pension budges; What salaries ye lower, so ye leave alone the Judges; Who knows but I, by chance, may be hereafter for the Bench meant, Then _that_ is surely not a proper object for retrenchment." Bow, wow, wow.

"'Tis wisely said," George Tierney cries, who to the last had tarried, "Too far by patriotic feelings some of ye are carried; Economy 'tis very well at times to snarl and bite for, But have a care, lest bye-and-bye there's nothing left to fight for." Bow, wow, wow.

But, spite of Tierney, they have things and notices in plenty, too, To keep the Mountain pack at work till June or July, Twenty-two; And there's no doubt they'll do as much to serve the grateful nation, As they had done before they parted for the short vacation. Bow, wow, wow.

[Music: REMINISCENCES.

(_Continued._)

When last we left the Mountain Pack enjoying Easter's jolly days, We followed up their sport until it ended with their hol-i-days; And now against their "Privilege," we hope 'twill be no treason, To track their steps throughout the dull remainder of the sea-son. Bow, wow, wow, Fal liddle Fal de riddle, Bow, wow, wow.]

George Tierney is a cunning dog, and prudently does think it, The wisest to run mute, and when a question rises, blink it; To bunglers he has left it to "give tongue" and talk prophetics, To Hume in figures, Cam in Greek, and Bennet in pathetics. Bow, wow, wow.

Brougham vents a loud complaint, that Royal influence increases, And holds that Members of the House should give up all their places; But, shifting Master Harry, pray which way would int'rest turn you, If George the Fourth forthwith was pleased to make you his Attorney? Bow, wow, wow.

Says Jarvy Sefton, "I've a charming little job _in petto_, From Salford's ancient County Court some modern fees to get O! Just help me through with that, and I'll cry aye to all your movements, For war, the plague, economy, or any great improvements." Bow, wow, wow.

Sir Francis Burdett next appears, once idol of the people, Who says, the thought of raising rents should never make men sleep ill; For, though so pure a patriot, his gains he would increase, Sir, And does not care if quartern loaves five shillings were a-piece, Sir. Bow, wow, wow.

But what a noble stir he made on Hunt's incarceration, Because his name he holds in such exalted estimation; He always, to be sure, has shewn for him favour and affection, As witness, how he praised him at the Westminster Election. Bow, wow, wow.

Says Bridegroom Coke, "For speaking in the House I've lost my head, Sir; But never mind, I'll tell you what I mean to do instead, Sir, I'll work as hard as I'm allow'd by Anne and the physicians, And send you once a week, at least, a bag full of petitions." Bow, wow, wow.

Says Gaffer Western, "Though we once, amongst our many whimsies, Cried out with all our might for gold, and grumbled at the 'flimsies,' Since Ministers now pay in cash, and think to cut a caper, We'll turn about and badger them to pay again in paper." Bow, wow, wow.

Then Johnny Russell made a speech, and some of it was pointed, too, About "Reform in Parliament," and "state of things in ninety-two;" But though 'twas call'd a sharp harangue, and he had clearly read for't, He never spoke of throwing open Tavistock or Bedford. Bow, wow, wow.

Dull Joseph Hume, the stupidest of all the northern doctors, Fell foul, in his good-natured way, of Royal droits and proctors; And hoped that then five thousand pounds at least disbursed had been, Sir, To satisfy some Captain's claims who--votes for Aberdeen, Sir. Bow, wow, wow.

Then Courteney moved, and others thought they could do much better, Than vote a breach of Privilege, a certain printed letter; But when they had its writer up, as all reporters teach, Sir, The House forgot its privilege, and only shew'd its breach, Sir! Bow, wow, wow.

Then Abercrombie gentle, seized with one of Quixote's frenzies, Sets off, post haste in chaise and four, to call out Lawyer Menzies; But when he got to Ferrybridge he long'd to join the pack again, So after dinner, he and Althorpe--order'd horses back again. Bow, wow, wow.

Wise Scarlett, who is just your man to browbeat, pose, or plead, Sir, Produced a poor-bill, which, 'tis said, was very poor indeed, Sir; And Denman spoke when he'd been made a serjeant in the morning, And what he said betray'd that he'd been dining at the Horn Inn. Bow, wow, wow.

While Whitbread, Calvert, Buxton all, kept up the price of beer, Sir, Young Yellow Lambton seem'd to think the poor were charged too dear, Sir; But, though he loves his countrymen, he'd not, to save their souls, Sir, Make any alteration in the present price of coals, Sir. Bow, wow, wow.

Grey Bennet having got a list of members holding places, Began to foam of hospitals and of ophthalmic cases; When "scissors cut as well as knives," when patients should take blue pills, His oratory--"all my eye"--the dullest he of pupils. Bow, wow, wow.

Then as for Davies, Lennard, Ellis, Hutchinson, and Creevy, Ricardo, Williams, Curwen, Smith, or Moses Bernal Levi; They've done as much as smirking Rice or Thanet's Pat Concannon, Or gaiter'd Michael Angelo, or stiff-neck'd Lord Dungannon. Bow, wow, wow.

Then Mackintosh (poor Gerald's friend), who doles out legal knowledge Three times a week to Guinea-pigs at Haileybury College, Conceived the penal laws too hard on rogues of all descriptions, From those who only rob, to those who--carry off subscriptions. Bow, wow, wow.

Great Matthew Wood, a citizen, who never can be idle, Brought forward as a mighty hit--the case of Jailor Bridle; Of several other things he spoke, the brightest he of Members, But what they were, nor you, nor I, nor any one remembers. Bow, wow, wow.