As I think of the insult that's done to this nation,Red tears of rivinge from me fatures I wash,And uphold in this pome, to the world's daytistation,The sleeves that appointed PROFESSOR M'COSH.I look round me counthree, renowned by exparience,And see midst her childthren, the witty, the wise,—Whole hayps of logicians, potes, schollars, grammarians,All ayger for pleeces, all panting to rise;I gaze round the world in its utmost diminsion;LARD JAHN and his minions in Council I ask;Was there ever a Government-pleece (with a pinsion)But children of Erin were fit for that task?What, Erin beloved, is thy fetal condition?What shame in aych boosom must rankle and burrun,To think that our countree has ne'er a logicianIn the hour of her deenger will surrev her turrun!On the logic of Saxons there's little reliance,And, rather from Saxons than gather its rules,I'd stamp under feet the base book of his science,And spit on his chair as he taught in the schools!O false SIR JOHN KANE! is it thus that you praych me?I think all your Queen's Universitees Bosh;And if you've no neetive Professor to taych me,I scawurn to be learned by the Saxon M'COSH.There's WISEMAN and CHUME, and His Grace the Lord Primate,That sinds round the box, and the world will subscribe;'Tis they'll build a College that's fit for our climate,And taych me the saycrets I burn to imboibe!'Tis there as a Student of Science I'll enther,Fair Fountain of Knowledge, of Joy, and Contint!SAINT PATHRICK'S sweet Statue shall stand in the centher,And wink his dear oi every day during Lint.And good Doctor NEWMAN, that praycher unwary,'Tis he shall preside the Academee School,And quit the gay robe of ST. PHILIP of Neri,To wield the soft rod of ST. LAWRENCE O'TOOLE!
An igstrawnary tail I vill tell you this veek—I stood in the Court of A'Beckett the Beak,Vere Mrs. Jane Roney, a vidow, I see,Who charged Mary Brown with a robbin of she.This Mary was pore and in misery once,And she came to Mrs. Roney it's more than twelve monce.She adn't got no bed, nor no dinner nor no tea,And kind Mrs. Roney gave Mary all three.Mrs. Roney kep Mary for ever so many veeks,(Her conduct disgusted the best of all Beax,)She kep her for nothink, as kind as could be,Never thinkin that this Mary was a traitor to she."Mrs. Roney, O Mrs. Roney, I feel very ill;Will you just step to the Doctor's for to fetch me a pill?""That I will, my pore Mary," Mrs. Roney says she;And she goes off to the Doctor's as quickly as may be.No sooner on this message Mrs. Roney was sped,Than hup gits vicked Mary, and jumps out a bed;She hopens all the trunks without never a key—She bustes all the boxes, and vith them makes free.Mrs. Roney's best linning, gownds, petticoats, and close,Her children's little coats and things, her boots, and her hose,She packed them, and she stole 'em, and avay vith them did flee.Mrs. Roney's situation—you may think vat it vould be!Of Mary, ungrateful, who had served her this vay,Mrs. Roney heard nothink for a long year and a day.Till last Thursday, in Lambeth, ven whom should she seeBut this Mary, as had acted so ungrateful to she?She was leaning on the helbo of a worthy young man,They were going to be married, and were walkin hand in hand;And the Church bells was a ringing for Mary and he,And the parson was ready, and a waitin for his fee.When up comes Mrs. Roney, and faces Mary Brown,Who trembles, and castes her eyes upon the ground.She calls a jolly pleaseman, it happens to be me;I charge this yonng woman, Mr. Pleaseman, says she."Mrs. Roney, O, Mrs. Roney, O, do let me go,I acted most ungrateful I own, and I know,But the marriage bell is a ringin, and the ring you may see,And this young man is a waitin," says Mary says she."I don't care three fardens for the parson and clark,And the bell may keep ringin from noon day to dark.Mary Brown, Mary Brown, you must come along with me;And I think this young man is lucky to be free."So, in spite of the tears which bejew'd Mary's cheek,I took that young gurl to A'Beckett the Beak;That exlent Justice demanded her plea—But never a sullable said Mary said she.On account of her conduck so base and so vile,That wicked young gurl is committed for trile,And if she's transpawted beyond the salt sea,It's a proper reward for such willians as she.Now you young gurls of Southwark for Mary who veep,From pickin and stealin your ands you must keep,Or it may be my dooty, as it was Thursday veek,To pull you all hup to A'Beckett the Beak.
My name is Pleaceman X;Last night I was in bed,A dream did me perplex,Which came into my Edd.I dreamed I sor three WaitsA playing of their tune,At Pimlico Palace gates,All underneath the moon.One puffed a hold French horn,And one a hold Banjo,And one chap seedy and tornA Hirish pipe did blow.They sadly piped and played,Dexcribing of their fates;And this was what they said,Those three pore Christmas Waits:"When this black year began,This Eighteen-forty-eight,I was a great great man,And king both vise and great,And Munseer Guizot by me did showAs Minister of State."But Febuwerry came,And brought a rabble rout,And me and my good dameAnd children did turn out,And us, in spite of all our right.Sent to the right about."I left my native ground,I left my kin and kith,I left my royal crownd,Vich I couldn't travel vith,And without a pound came to English ground,In the name of Mr. Smith."Like any anchoriteI've lived since I came here,I've kep myself quite quite,I've drank the small small beer,And the vater, you see, disagrees vith meAnd all my famly dear."O Tweeleries so dear,O darling Pally Royl,Vas it to finish hereThat I did trouble and toyl?That all my plans should break in my ands,And should on me recoil?"My state I fenced aboutVith baynicks and vith guns;My gals I portioned hout,Rich vives I got my sons;O varn't it crule to lose my rule,My money and lands at once?"And so, vith arp and woice,Both troubled and shagreened,I hid you to rejoice,O glorious England's Queend!And never have to veep, like pore Louis-Phileep,Because you out are cleaned."O Prins, so brave and stout,I stand before your gate;Pray send a trifle houtTo me, your pore old Vait;For nothink could be vuss than it's been along vith usIn this year Forty-eight.""Ven this bad year began,"The nex man said, seysee,"I vas a Journeyman,A taylor black and free,And my wife went out and chaired about,And my name's the bold Cuffee."The Queen and Halbert bothI swore I would confound,I took a hawfle hoathTo drag them to the ground;And sevral more with me they sworeAginst the British Crownd."Aginst her Pleacemen allWe said we'd try our strenth;Her scarlick soldiers tallWe vow'd we'd lay full lenth;And out we came, in Freedom's name,Last Aypril was the tenth."Three 'undred thousand snobsCame out to stop the vay,Vith sticks vith iron knobs,Or else we'd gained the day.The harmy quite kept out of sight,And so ve vent avay."Next day the Pleacemen came—Rewenge it was their plann—And from my good old dameThey took her tailor-mann:And the hard hard beak did me bespeakTo Newgit in the Wann."In that etrocious CortThe Jewry did agree;The Judge did me transport,To go beyond the sea:And so for life, from his dear wifeThey took poor old Cuffee."O Halbert, Appy Prince!With children round your knees,Ingraving ansum Prints,And taking hoff your hease;O think of me, the old Cuffee,Beyond the solt solt seas!"Although I'm hold and black,My hanguish is most great;Great Prince, O call me back,And I vill be your Vait!And never no more vill break the Lor,As I did in 'Forty-eight."The tailer thus did close(A pore old blackymore rogue),When a dismal gent uprose,And spoke with Hirish brogue:"I'm Smith O'Brine, of Royal Line,Descended from Rory Ogue."When great O'Connle died,That man whom all did trust,That man whom Henglish prideBeheld with such disgust,Then Erin free fixed eyes on me,And swoar I should be fust."'The glorious Hirish Crown,'Says she, 'it shall be thine:Long time, it's wery well known,You kep it in your line;That diadem of hemerald gemIs yours, my Smith O'Brine."'Too long the Saxon churlOur land encumbered hath;Arise my Prince, my Earl,And brush them from thy path:Rise, mighty Smith, and sveep 'em vithThe besom of your wrath.'"Then in my might I rose,My country I surveyed,I saw it filled with foes,I viewed them undismayed;'Ha, ha!' says I, 'the harvest's high,I'll reap it with my blade.'"My warriors I enrolled,They rallied round their lord;And cheafs in council oldI summoned to the board—Wise Doheny and Duffy bold,And Meagher of the Sword."I stood on Slievenamaun,They came with pikes and bills;They gathered in the dawn,Like mist upon the hills,And rushed adown the mountain sideLike twenty thousand rills."Their fortress we assail;Hurroo! my boys, hurroo!The bloody Saxons quailTo hear the wild Shaloo:Strike, and prevail, proud Innesfail,O'Brine aboo, aboo!"Our people they defied;They shot at 'em like savages,Their bloody guns they pliedWith sanguinary ravages:Hide, blushing Glory, hideThat day among the cabbages!"And so no more I'll say,But ask your Mussy great.And humbly sing and pray,Your Majesty's poor Wait:Your Smith O'Brine in 'Forty-nineWill blush for 'Forty-eight."
BY A GENTLEMAN OF THE FOOTGUARDS (BLUE).
I paced upon my beatWith steady step and slow,All huppandownd of Ranelagh Street:Ran'lagh St. Pimlico.While marching huppandowndUpon that fair May morn,Beold the booming cannings sound,A royal child is born!The Ministers of StateThen presnly I sor,They gallops to the Pallis gate,In carridges and for.With anxious looks intent,Before the gate they stop,There comes the good Lord President,And there the Archbishopp.Lord John he next elights;And who comes here in haste?'Tis the ero of one underd fights,The caudle for to taste.Then Mrs. Lily, the nuss,Towards them steps with joy;Says the brave old Duke, "Come tell to us,Is it a gal or a boy?"Says Mrs. L. to the Duke,"Your Grace, it is A PRINCE."And at that nuss's bold rebuke,He did both laugh and wince.He vews with pleasant lookThis pooty flower of May,Then, says the wenarable Duke,"Egad, it's my buthday."By memory backwards borne,Peraps his thoughts did strayTo that old place where he was born,Upon the first of May.Perhaps he did recalThe ancient towers of Trim;And County Meath and Dangan HallThey did rewisit him.I phansy of him soHis good old thoughts employin';Fourscore years and one agoBeside the flowin' Boyne.His father praps he sees,Most Musicle of Lords,A playing maddrigles and gleesUpon the Arpsicords.Jest phansy this old EroUpon his mother's knee!Did ever lady in this landAve greater sons than she?And I shoudn be surprizeWhile this was in his mind,If a drop there twinkled in his eyesOf unfamiliar brind.. . . . .To Hapsly Ouse next dayDrives up a Broosh and for,A gracious prince sits in that Shay(I mention him with Hor!)They ring upon the bell,The Porter shows his Ed,(He fought at Vaterloo as vell,And vears a Veskit red).To see that carriage come,The people round it press:"And is the galliant Duke at ome?""Your Royal Ighness, yes."He stepps from out the BrooshAnd in the gate is gone;And X, although the people push,Says wary kind, "Move hon."The Royal Prince untoThe galliant Duke did say,"Dear duke, my little son and youWas born the self same day."The Lady of the land,My wife and Sovring dear,It is by her horgust commandI wait upon you here."That lady is as wellAs can expected be;And to your Grace she bid me tellThis gracious message free."That offspring of our race,Whom yesterday you see,To show our honor for your Grace,Prince Arthur he shall be."That name it rhymes to fame;All Europe knows the sound:And I couldn't find a better nameIf you'd give me twenty pound."King Arthur had his knightsThat girt his table round,But you have won a hundred fights,Will match 'em I'll be bound."You fought with Bonypart,And likewise Tippoo Saib;I name you then with all my heartThe Godsire of this babe."That Prince his leave was took,His hinterview was done.So let us give the good old DukeGood luck of his god-son.And wish him years of joyIn this our time of Schism,And hope he'll hear the royal boyHis little catechism.And my pooty little PrinceThat's come our arts to cheer,Let me my loyal powers ewinceA welcomin of you ere.And the Poit-Laureat's crownd,I think, in some respex,Egstremely shootable might be foundFor honest Pleaseman X.* The birth of Prince Arthur.
Galliant gents and lovely ladies,List a tail vich late befel,Vich I heard it, bein on duty,At the Pleace Hoffice, Clerkenwell.Praps you know the Fondling Chapel,Vere the little children sings:(Lor! I likes to hear on SundiesThem there pooty little things!)In this street there lived a housemaid,If you particklarly ask me where—Vy, it vas at four-and-tventyGuilford Street, by Brunsvick Square.Vich her name was Eliza Davis,And she went to fetch the beer:In the street she met a partyAs was quite surprized to see her.Vich he vas a British Sailor,For to judge him by his look:Tarry jacket, canvass trowsies,Ha-la Mr. T. P. Cooke.Presently this Mann accostesOf this hinnocent young gal—"Pray," saysee, "excuse my freedom,You're so like my Sister Sal!"You're so like my Sister Sally,Both in valk and face and size,Miss, that—dang my old lee scuppers,It brings tears into my heyes!""I'm a mate on board a wessel,I'm a sailor bold and true;Shiver up my poor old timbers,Let me be a mate for you!"What's your name, my beauty, tell me;"And she faintly hansers, "Lore,Sir, my name's Eliza Davis,And I live at tventy-four."Hoftimes came this British seaman,This deluded gal to meet;And at tventy-four was welcome,Tventy-four in Guilford Street.And Eliza told her Master(Kinder they than Missuses are),How in marridge he had ast her,Like a galliant Brittish Tar.And he brought his landlady vith him,(Vich vas all his hartful plan),And she told how Charley ThompsonReely vas a good young man.And how she herself had lived inMany years of union sweet,Vith a gent she met promiskous,Valkin in the public street.And Eliza listened to them,And she thought that soon their bandsVould be published at the Fondlin,Hand the clergymen jine their ands.And he ast about the lodgers,(Vich her master let some rooms),Likevise vere they kep their things, andVere her master kep his spoons.Hand this vicked Charley ThompsonCame on Sundy veek to see her;And he sent Eliza DavisHout to fetch a pint of beer.Hand while pore Eliza vent toFetch the beer, dewoid of sin,This etrocious Charley ThompsonLet his wile accomplish him.To the lodgers, their apartments,This abandingd female goes,Prigs their shirts and umberellas;Prigs their boots, and hats, and clothes.Vile the scoundrel Charley Thompson,Lest his wictim should escape,Hocust her vith rum and vater,Like a fiend in huming shape.But a hi was fixt upon 'emVich these raskles little sore;Namely, Mr. Hide, the landlordOf the house at tventy-four.He vas valkin in his garden,Just afore he vent to sup;And on looking up he sor theLodgers' vinders lighted hup.Hup the stairs the landlord tumbled;Something's going wrong, he said;And he caught the vicked vomanUnderneath the lodgers' bed.And he called a brother Pleaseman,Vich vas passing on his beat;Like a true and galliant feller,Hup and down in Guilford Street.And that Pleaseman able-bodiedTook this voman to the cell;To the cell vere she was quodded,In the Close of Clerkenwell.And though vicked Charley ThompsonBoulted like a miscrant base,Presently another PleasemanTook him to the self-same place.And this precious pair of rasklesTuesday last came up for doom;By the beak they was committed,Vich his name was Mr. Combe.Has for poor Eliza Davis,Simple gurl of tventy-four,SHE I ope, vill never listenIn the streets to sailors moar.But if she must ave a sweet-art,(Vich most every gurl expex,)Let her take a jolly pleaseman;Vich his name peraps is—X.
Special Jurymen of England! who admire your country's laws,And proclaim a British Jury worthy of the realm's applause;Gayly compliment each other at the issue of a causeWhich was tried at Guildford 'sizes, this day week as ever was.Unto that august tribunal comes a gentleman in grief,(Special was the British Jury, and the Judge, the Baron Chief,)Comes a British man and husband—asking of the law relief;For his wife was stolen from him—he'd have vengeance on the thief.Yes, his wife, the blessed treasure with the which his life wascrowned,Wickedly was ravished from him by a hypocrite profound.And he comes before twelve Britons, men for sense and truth renowned,To award him for his damage, twenty hundred sterling pound.He by counsel and attorney there at Guildford does appear,Asking damage of the villain who seduced his lady dear:But I can't help asking, though the lady's guilt was all too clear,And though guilty the defendant, wasn't the plaintiff rather queer?First the lady's mother spoke, and said she'd seen her daughter cryBut a fortnight after marriage: early times for piping eye.Six months after, things were worse, and the piping eye was black,And this gallant British husband caned his wife upon the back.Three months after they were married, husband pushed her to the door,Told her to be off and leave him, for he wanted her no more.As she would not go, why HE went: thrice he left his lady dear;Left her, too, without a penny, for more than a quarter of a year.Mrs. Frances Duncan knew the parties very well indeed,She had seen him pull his lady's nose and make her lip to bleed;If he chanced to sit at home not a single word he said:Once she saw him throw the cover of a dish at his lady's head.Sarah Green, another witness, clear did to the jury noteHow she saw this honest fellow seize his lady by the throat,How he cursed her and abused her, beating her into a fit,Till the pitying next-door neighbors crossed the wall and witnessed it.Next door to this injured Briton Mr. Owers a butcher dwelt;Mrs. Owers's foolish heart towards this erring dame did melt;(Not that she had erred as yet, crime was not developed in her),But being left without a penny, Mrs. Owers supplied her dinner—God be merciful to Mrs. Owers, who was merciful to this sinner!Caroline Naylor was their servant, said they led a wretched life,Saw this most distinguished Briton fling a teacup at his wife;He went out to balls and pleasures, and never once, in ten months'space,Sat with his wife or spoke her kindly. This was the defendant'scase.Pollock, C.B., charged the Jury; said the woman's guilt was clear:That was not the point, however, which the Jury came to hear;But the damage to determine which, as it should true appear,This most tender-hearted husband, who so used his lady dear—Beat her, kicked her, caned her, cursed her, left her starving,year by year,Flung her from him, parted from her, wrung her neck, and boxed herear—What the reasonable damage this afflicted man could claim,By the loss of the affections of this guilty graceless dame?Then the honest British Twelve, to each other turning round,Laid their clever heads together with a wisdom most profound:And towards his Lordship looking, spoke the foreman wise and sound;—"My Lord, we find for this here plaintiff, damages two hundredpound."So, God bless the Special Jury! pride and joy of English ground,And the happy land of England, where true justice does abound!British jurymen and husbands, let us hail this verdict proper:If a British wife offends you, Britons, you've a right to whop her.Though you promised to protect her, though you promised to defend her,You are welcome to neglect her: to the devil you may send her:You may strike her, curse, abuse her; so declares our law renowned;And if after this you lose her,—why, you're paid two hundred pound.
There's in the Vest a city pleasantTo vich King Bladud gev his name,And in that city there's a CrescentVere dwelt a noble knight of fame.Although that galliant knight is oldish,Although Sir John as gray, gray air,Hage has not made his busum coldish,His Art still beats tewodds the Fair!'Twas two years sins, this knight so splendid,Peraps fateagued with Bath's routines,To Paris towne his phootsteps bendedIn sutch of gayer folks and seans.His and was free, his means was easy,A nobler, finer gent than heNe'er drove about the Shons-Eleesy,Or paced the Roo de Rivolee.A brougham and pair Sir John prowided,In which abroad he loved to ride;But ar! he most of all enjyed it,When some one helse was sittin' inside!That "some one helse" a lovely dame wasDear ladies you will heasy tell—Countess Grabrowski her sweet name was,A noble title, ard to spell.This faymus Countess ad a daughterOf lovely form and tender art;A nobleman in marridge sought her,By name the Baron of Saint Bart.Their pashn touched the noble Sir John,It was so pewer and profound;Lady Grabrowski he did urge onWith Hyming's wreeth their loves to crownd."O, come to Bath, to Lansdowne Crescent,"Says kind Sir John, "and live with me;The living there's uncommon pleasant—I'm sure you'll find the hair agree."O, come to Bath, my fair Grabrowski,And bring your charming girl," sezee;"The Barring here shall have the ouse-key,Vith breakfast, dinner, lunch, and tea."And when they've passed an appy winter,Their opes and loves no more we'll bar;The marridge-vow they'll enter inter,And I at church will be their Par."To Bath they went to Lansdowne Crescent,Where good Sir John he did provideNo end of teas and balls incessant,And hosses both to drive and ride.He was so Ospitably busy,When Miss was late, he'd make so boldUpstairs to call out, "Missy, Missy,Come down, the coffy's getting cold!"But O! 'tis sadd to think such bountiesShould meet with such return as this;O Barring of Saint Bart, O CountessGrabrowski, and O cruel Miss!He married you at Bath's fair Habby,Saint Bart he treated like a son—And wasn't it uncommon shabbyTo do what you have went and done!My trembling And amost refewsesTo write the charge which Sir John swore,Of which the Countess he ecuses,Her daughter and her son-in-lore.My Mews quite blushes as she sings ofThe fatle charge which now I quote:He says Miss took his two best rings off,And pawned 'em for a tenpun note."Is this the child of honest parince,To make away with folks' best things?Is this, pray, like the wives of Barrins,To go and prig a gentleman's rings?"Thus thought Sir John, by anger wrought on,And to rewenge his injured cause,He brought them hup to Mr. Broughton,Last Vensday veek as ever waws.If guiltless, how she have been slandered!If guilty, wengeance will not fail:Meanwhile the lady is remandedAnd gev three hundred pouns in bail.
A NEW PALLICE COURT CHANT.
One sees in Viteall Yard,Vere pleacemen do resort,A wenerable hinstitute,'Tis call'd the Pallis Court.A gent as got his i on it,I think 'twill make some sport.The natur of this CourtMy hindignation riles:A few fat legal spidersHere set & spin their viles;To rob the town theyr privlege is,In a hayrea of twelve miles.The Judge of this year CourtIs a mellitary beak,He knows no more of LorThan praps he does of Greek,And prowides hisself a deputyBecause he cannot speak.Four counsel in this Court—Misnamed of Justice—sits;These lawyers owes their places toTheir money, not their wits;And there's six attornies under them,As here their living gits.These lawyers, six and four,Was a livin at their ease,A sendin of their writs abowt,And droring in the fees,When their erose a cirkimstanceAs is like to make a breeze.It now is some monce since,A gent both good and trewPossest an ansum oss vith vichHe didn know what to do:Peraps he did not like the oss;Peraps he was a scru.This gentleman his ossAt Tattersall's did lodge;There came a wulgar oss-dealer,This gentleman's name did fodge,And took the oss from Tattersall'sWasn that a artful dodge?One day this gentleman's groomThis willain did spy out,A mounted on this ossA ridin him about;"Get out of that there oss, you rogue,"Speaks up the groom so stout.The thief was cruel whex'dTo find himself so pinn'd;The oss began to whinny,The honest gloom he grinn'd;And the raskle thief got off the ossAnd cut avay like vind.And phansy with what joyThe master did regardHis dearly bluvd lost oss againTrot in the stable yard!Who was this master goodOf whomb I makes these rhymes?His name is Jacob Homnium, Exquire;And if I'd committed crimes,Good Lord I wouldn't ave that mannAttack me in the Times!Now shortly after the groombHis master's oss did take up,There came a livery-manThis gentleman to wake up;And he handed in a little bill,Which hangered Mr. Jacob.For two pound seventeenThis livery-man eplied,For the keep of Mr. Jacob's oss,Which the thief had took to ride."Do you see anythink green in me?"Mr. Jacob Homnium cried."Because a raskle chewsMy oss away to robb,And goes tick at your MewsFor seven-and-fifty bobb,Shall I be call'd to pay?—It isA iniquitious Jobb."Thus Mr. Jacob cutThe conwasation short;The livery-man went ome,Detummingd to ave sport,And summingsd Jacob Homnium, Exquire,Into the Pallis Court.Pore Jacob went to Court,A Counsel for to fix,And choose a barrister out of the four,An attorney of the six:And there he sor these men of Lor,And watch'd 'em at their tricks.The dreadful day of trileIn the Pallis Court did come;The lawyers said their say,The Judge look'd wery glum,And then the British Jury castPore Jacob Hom-ni-um.O a weary day was thatFor Jacob to go through;The debt was two seventeen(Which he no mor owed than you),And then there was the plaintives costs,Eleven pound six and two.And then there was his own,Which the lawyers they did fixAt the wery moderit figgarOf ten pound one and six.Now Evins bless the Pallis Court,And all its bold ver-dicks!I cannot settingly tellIf Jacob swaw and cust,At aving for to pay this sumb;But I should think he must,And av drawn a cheque for L24 4s. 8d.With most igstreme disgust.O Pallis Court, you moveMy pitty most profound.A most emusing sportYou thought it, I'll be bound,To saddle hup a three-pound debt,With two-and-twenty pound.Good sport it is to youTo grind the honest pore,To pay their just or unjust debtsWith eight hundred per cent. for Lor;Make haste and get your costes in,They will not last much mor!Come down from that tribewn,Thou shameless and Unjust;Thou Swindle, picking pockets inThe name of Truth august:Come down, thou hoary blasphemy,For die thou shalt and must.And go it, Jacob Homnium,And ply your iron pen,And rise up, Sir John Jervis,And shut me up that den;That sty for fattening lawyers in,On the bones of honest men.PLEACEMAN X.
The night was stormy and dark,The town was shut up in sleep:Only those were abroad who were out on a lark,Or those who'd no beds to keep.I pass'd through the lonely street,The wind did sing and blow;I could hear the policeman's feetClapping to and fro.There stood a potato-manIn the midst of all the wet;He stood with his 'tato-canIn the lonely Hay-market.Two gents of dismal mien,And dank and greasy rags,Came out of a shop for gin,Swaggering over the flags:Swaggering over the stones,These shabby bucks did walk;And I went and followed those seedy ones,And listened to their talk.Was I sober or awake?Could I believe my ears?Those dismal beggars spakeOf nothing but railroad shares.I wondered more and more:Says one—"Good friend of mine,How many shares have you wrote for,In the Diddlesex Junction line?""I wrote for twenty," says Jim,"But they wouldn't give me one;"His comrade straight rebuked himFor the folly he had done:"O Jim, you are unawaresOf the ways of this bad town;I always write for five hundred shares,And THEN they put me down.""And yet you got no shares,"Says Jim, "for all your boast;""I WOULD have wrote," says Jack, "but whereWas the penny to pay the post?""I lost, for I couldn't payThat first instalment up;But here's 'taters smoking hot—I say,Let's stop, my boy, and sup."And at this simple feastThe while they did regale,I drew each ragged capitalistDown on my left thumbnail.Their talk did me perplex,All night I tumbled and tost,And thought of railroad specs,And how money was won and lost."Bless railroads everywhere,"I said, "and the world's advance;Bless every railroad shareIn Italy, Ireland, France;For never a beggar need now despair,And every rogue has a chance."
OF THE PROTESTANT CONSPIRACY TO TAKE THE POPE'S LIFE.(BY A GENTLEMAN WHO HAS BEEN ON THE SPOT.)
Come all ye Christian people, unto my tale give ear,'Tis about a base consperracy, as quickly shall appear;'Twill make your hair to bristle up, and your eyes to start and glow,When of this dread consperracy you honest folks shall know.The news of this consperracy and villianous attempt,I read it in a newspaper, from Italy it was sent:It was sent from lovely Italy, where the olives they do grow,And our holy father lives, yes, yes, while his name it is No NO.And 'tis there our English noblemen goes that is Puseyites nolonger,Because they finds the ancient faith both better is and stronger,And 'tis there I knelt beside my lord when he kiss'd the POPE histoe,And hung his neck with chains at St. Peter's Vinculo.And 'tis there the splendid churches is, and the fountains playinggrand,And the palace of PRINCE TORLONIA, likewise the Vatican;And there's the stairs where the bagpipe-men and the piffararysblow.And it's there I drove my lady and lord in the Park of Pincio.And 'tis there our splendid churches is in all their pride andglory,Saint Peter's famous Basilisk and Saint Mary's Maggiory;And them benighted Prodestants, on Sunday they must goOutside the town to the preaching-shop by the gate of Popolo.Now in this town of famous Room, as I dessay you have heard,There is scarcely any gentleman as hasn't got a beard.And ever since the world began it was ordained so,That there should always barbers he wheresumever beards do grow.And as it always has been so since the world it did begin,The POPE, our Holy Potentate, has a beard upon his chin;And every morning regular when cocks begin to crow,There comes a certing party to wait on POPE PIO.There comes a certing gintlemen with razier, soap, and lather,A shaving most respectfully the POPE, our Holy Father.And now the dread consperracy I'll quickly to you show,Which them sanguinary Prodestants did form against NONO.Them sanguinary Prodestants, which I abore and hate,Assembled in the preaching-shop by the Flaminian gate;And they took counsel with their selves to deal a deadly blowAgainst our gentle Father, the Holy POPE PIO.Exhibiting a wickedness which I never heard or read of;What do you think them Prodestants wished? to cut the good Pope'shead off!And to the kind POPE'S Air-dresser the Prodestant Clark did go,And proposed him to decapitate the innocent PIO."What hever can be easier," said this Clerk—this Man of Sin,"When you are called to hoperate on His Holiness's chin,Than just to give the razier a little slip—just so?—And there's an end, dear barber, of innocent PIO!"The wicked conversation it chanced was overerdBy an Italian lady; she heard it every word:Which by birth she was a Marchioness, in service forced to goWith the parson of the preaching-shop at the gate of Popolo.When the lady heard the news, as duty did obleege,As fast as her legs could carry her she ran to the Poleege."O Polegia," says she (for they pronounts it so),"They're going for to massyker our Holy POPE PIO."The ebomminable Englishmen, the Parsing and his Clark,His Holiness's Air-dresser devised it in the dark!And I would recommend you in prison for to throwThese villians would esassinate the Holy POPE PIO?"And for saving of His Holiness and his trebble crowndI humbly hope your Worships will give me a few pound;Because I was a Marchioness many years ago,Before I came to service at the gate of Popolo."That sackreligious Air-dresser, the Parson and his manWouldn't, though ask'd continyally, own their wicked plan—And so the kind Authoraties let those villians goThat was plotting of the murder of the good PIO NONO.Now isn't this safishnt proof, ye gentlemen at home,How wicked is them Prodestants, and how good our Pope at Rome?So let us drink confusion to LORD JOHN and LORD MINTO,And a health unto His Eminence, and good PIO NONO.
Come all ye Christian people, and listen to my tail,It is all about a doctor was travelling by the rail,By the Heastern Counties' Railway (vich the shares I don't desire),From Ixworth town in Suffolk, vich his name did not transpire.A travelling from Bury this Doctor was employedWith a gentleman, a friend of his, vich his name was Captain Loyd,And on reaching Marks Tey Station, that is next beyond Colchest-er, a lady entered into them most elegantly dressed.She entered into the Carriage all with a tottering step,And a pooty little Bayby upon her bussum slep;The gentlemen received her with kindness and siwillaty,Pitying this lady for her illness and debillaty.She had a fust-class ticket, this lovely lady said,Because it was so lonesome she took a secknd instead.Better to travel by secknd class, than sit alone in the fust,And the pooty little Baby upon her breast she nust.A seein of her cryin, and shiverin and pail,To her spoke this surging, the Ero of my tail;Saysee you look unwell, Ma'am, I'll elp you if I can,And you may tell your ease to me, for I'm a meddicle man."Thank you, Sir," the lady said, "I only look so pale,Because I ain't accustom'd to travelling on the Rale;I shall be better presnly, when I've ad some rest:"And that pooty little Baby she squeeged it to her breast.So in the conwersation the journey they beguiled,Capting Loyd and the meddicle man, and the lady and the child,Till the warious stations along the line was passed,For even the Heastern Counties' trains must come in at last.When at Shoreditch tumminus at lenth stopped the train,This kind meddicle gentleman proposed his aid again."Thank you, Sir," the lady said, "for your kyindness dear;My carridge and my osses is probibbly come here."Will you old this baby, please, vilst I step and see?"The Doctor was a famly man: "That I will," says he.Then the little child she kist, kist it very gently,Vich was sucking his little fist, sleeping innocently.With a sigh from her art, as though she would have bust it,Then she gave the Doctor the child—wery kind he nust it:Hup then the lady jumped hoff the bench she sat from,Tumbled down the carridge steps and ran along the platform.Vile hall the other passengers vent upon their vays,The Capting and the Doctor sat there in a maze;Some vent in a Homminibus, some vent in a Cabby,The Capting and the Doctor vaited vith the babby.There they sat looking queer, for an hour or more,But their feller passinger neather on 'em sore:Never, never back again did that lady comeTo that pooty sleeping Hinfnt a suckin of his Thum!What could this pore Doctor do, bein treated thus,When the darling Baby woke, cryin for its nuss?Off he drove to a female friend, vich she was both kind and mild,And igsplained to her the circumstance of this year little child.That kind lady took the child instantly in her lap,And made it very comfortable by giving it some pap;And when she took its close off, what d'you think she found?A couple of ten pun notes sewn up, in its little gownd!Also in its little close, was a note which did conweyThat this little baby's parents lived in a handsome wayAnd for his Headucation they reglarly would pay,And sirtingly like gentlefolks would claim the child one day,If the Christian people who'd charge of it would say,Per adwertisement in The Times where the baby lay.Pity of this bayy many people took,It had such pooty ways and such a pooty look;And there came a lady forrard (I wish that I could seeAny kind lady as would do as much for me);And I wish with all my art, some night in MY night gownd,I could find a note stitched for ten or twenty pound—There came a lady forrard, that most honorable did say,She'd adopt this little baby, which her parents cast away.While the Doctor pondered on this hoffer fair,Comes a letter from Devonshire, from a party there,Hordering the Doctor, at its Mar's desire,To send the little Infant back to Devonshire.Lost in apoplexity, this pore meddicle man,Like a sensable gentleman, to the Justice ran;Which his name was Mr. Hammill, a honorable beak,That takes his seat in Worship Street, four times a week."O Justice!" says the Doctor, "instrugt me what to do.I've come up from the country, to throw myself on you;My patients have no doctor to tend them in their ills,(There they are in Suffolk without their drafts and pills!)"I've come up from the country, to know how I'll disposeOf this pore little baby, and the twenty pun note, and the close,And I want to go back to Suffolk, dear Justice, if you please,And my patients wants their Doctor, and their Doctor wants his feez."Up spoke Mr. Hammill, sittin at his desk,"This year application does me much perplesk;What I do adwise you, is to leave this babbyIn the Parish where it was left, by its mother shabby."The Doctor from his worship sadly did depart—He might have left the baby, but he hadn't got the heartTo go for to leave that Hinnocent, has the law allows,To the tender mussies of the Union House.Mother, who left this little one on a stranger's knee,Think how cruel you have been, and how good was he!Think, if you've been guilty, innocent was she;And do not take unkindly this little word of me:Heaven be merciful to us all, sinners as we be!