I'll ne'er forget th' old maid's alarm,
When, feeling thus Miss Sukey Flirt, he Said, as he dropp'd her shrivell'd arm, "Damn'd bad this morning-only thirty!"
Your dowagers, too, every one,
So gen'rous are, when they call him in, That he might now retire upon
The rheumatisms of three old women.
Then, whatsoe'er your ailments are,
He can so learnedly explain ye 'em
Your cold, of course, is a catarrh,
Your headach is a hemi-cranium:
His skill, too, in young ladies' lungs,
The grace with which, most mild of men, He begs them to put out their tongues,
Then bids them-put them in again:
In short, there's nothing now like JACK!—
Take all your doctors great and small,
Of present times and ages back,
Dear Doctor FUDGE is worth them all.
So much for physic-then, in law too,
Counsellor TIM, to thee we bow;
Not one of us gives more eclat to
Th' immortal name of FUDGE than thou. Not to expatiate on the art
With which you play'd the patriot's part,
Till something good and snug should offer;
Like one, who, by the way
Th' enlight'ning part of candle-snuffer,
The manager's keen eye attracts,
And is promoted thence by him
To strut in robes, like thee, my TIM!-
Who shall describe thy pow'rs of face,
Thy well-fee'd zeal in every case,
Or wrong or right-but ten times warmer
(As suits thy calling) in the former -
Thy glorious, lawyer-like delight
In puzzling all that's clear and right,
Which, though conspicuous in thy youth,
Improves so with a wig and band on,
That all thy pride's to waylay Truth,
And leave her not a leg to stand on.
Thy patent, prime, morality, —
Thy cases, cited from the Bible—
Thy candour, when it falls to thee
To help in trouncing for a libel;—
"God knows, I, from my soul, profess
"To hate all bigots and benighters!
"God knows, I love, to ev'n excess,
"The sacred Freedom of the Press,
My only aim's to-crush the writers."
These are the virtues, TIM, that draw
The briefs into thy bag so fast;
And these, oh TIM-if Law be Law.
Will raise thee to the Bench at last.
I blush to see this letter's length
But 'twas my wish to prove to thee How full of hope, and wealth, and strength, Are all our precious family.
And, should affairs go on as pleasant
As, thank the Fates, they do at present
Should we but still enjoy the sway
Of S-DM-H and of C
I hope, ere long, to see the day
When England's wisest statesmen, judges,
Lawyers, peers, will all be-FUDGES!
Good-bye-my paper's out so nearly,
I've only room for
BEFORE We sketch the Present-let us cast
A few, short, rapid glances to the Past.
When he, who had defied all Europe's strength,
Beneath his own weak rashness sunk at length; -
When, loos'd, as if by magic, from a chain
That seem'd like Fate's, the world was free again,
And Europe saw, rejoicing in the sight,
The cause of Kings, for once, the cause of Right;-
Then was, indeed, an hour of joy to those
Who sigh'd for justice-liberty—repose,
And hop'd the fall of one great vulture's nest
Would ring its warning round, and scare the rest.
All then was bright with promise;-Kings began
To own a sympathy with suffering Man,
And Man was grateful; Patriots of the South
Caught wisdom from a Cossack Emperor's mouth,
And heard, like accents thaw'd in Northern air,
Unwonted words of freedom burst forth there!
Who did not hope, in that triumphant time,
When monarchs, after years of spoil and crime,
Met round the shrine of Peace, and Heav'n look'd
Who did not hope the lust of spoil was gone;
That that rapacious spirit, which had play'd
The game of Pilnitz o'er so oft, was laid;
And Europe's Rulers, conscious of the past,
Would blush, and deviate into right at last?
But no-the hearts, that nurs'd a hope so fair,
Had yet to learn what men on thrones can dare;
Had yet to know, of all earth's ravening things,
The only quite untameable are Kings!
Scarce had they met when, to its nature true,
The instinct of their race broke out anew;
Promises, treaties, charters, all were vain,
And "Rapine! rapine!" was the cry again.
How quick they carv'd their victims, and how well,
Let Saxony, let injur'd Genoa tell;—
Let all the human stock that, day by day,
Was, at that Royal slave-mart, truck'd away,
|