The Choice Humorous Works, Ludicrous Adventures 28
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.
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