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Only think, Master Fred, what delight to behold,
Instead of thy bankrupt old City of Rags, A bran-new Jerusalem, built all of gold,
Sound bullion throughout, from the roof to the flags
A city where wine and cheap corn shall abound
A celestial Cocaigne, on whose butterfly shelves
As your saints seldom fail to take care of themselves !
Thanks, reverend expounder of raptures elysian,
Divine Squintifobus, who, placed within reach Of two opposite worlds by a twist of your vision
Can cast, at the same time, a sly look at each ;
Thanks, thanks for the hopes thou hast given us, that we
May, even in our times a jubilee share,
And so often has fail'd, we began to despair.
There was Whiston, who learnedly took Prince Eugene
For the man who must bring the Millennium about; There's Faber, whose pious predictions have been
All belied, ere his book's first edition was out;
There was Counsellor Dobbs, too, an Irish M.P.,
Who discoursed on the subject with signal eclat, And, each day of his life, sat expecting to see
A Millennium break out in the town of Armagh !
There was also—but why should I burden my lay
your Brotherses, Southcotes, and names less deserving, When all past Millenniums henceforth must give way
To the last new Millennium of Orator Irv-ng.
Go on, mighty man—doom them all to the shelf
And, when next thou with prophecy troublest thy sconce, Oh, forget not, I pray thee, to prove that thyself
Art the Beast (chapter 4) that sees nine ways at once!
THE LITTLE GRAND LAMA.
A FABLE FOR PRINCES ROYAL.
In Thibet once there reign'd, we're told,
And much his subjects were enchantel,
As well all Lamas' subjects may be,
To make tee-totums for the baby
(What lawyers call Jure Divino Meaning a right to yours and mine,
And every body's goods and rhino) Of course his faithful subjects' purses
Were ready with their aids and succorsNothing was seen but pension'd nurses,
And the land groan'd with bibs and tuckers,
Oh! had there been a Hume or Bennet
And pin-a-fores, in nightly battles !
The waste of sugar-plums and rattles!
But short this calm; for, just when he
Tweak'd the Lord Chancellor by the nose,
And trod on the old General's toesPelted the Bishops with hot buns,
Rode cock-horse on the city maces,
Hard peas into his subjects' faces.
And grew so mischievous (God bless him!)
When in these moods, to comb or dress bim; And even the persons most inclined
For Kings, through thick and thin, to stickle, Thought him (if they'd but speak their mind
Which they did not) an odious pickle.
At length, some patriot lords—a breed
Of animals they have in Thibet, Extremely rare, and fit, indeed,
For folks like Pidcock to exhibitSome patriot lords, seeing the length To which things went, combined their strength, And penn'd a manly, plain and free Remonstrance to the Nursery; In which, protesting that they yielded,
To none, that ever went before 'emIn loyalty to him who wielded
The hereditary pap-spoon o'er 'emThat, as for treason, ’t was a thing
That made them almost sick to think ofThat they and theirs stood by the King,
Throughout his measles and his chin-cough,
When others, thinking him consumptive,
There was no longer now the wise
Of birch before their ruler's eyes;
And freaks occurr'd the whole day long, As all
, but men with bishoprics, Allow'd, even in a King, were wrongWherefore it was they humbly pray'd
That Honorable Nursery,
As all good men desired to see ;-
And in its bud the mischief nipping-They ventured humbly to suggest
His Majesty should have a whipping!
When this was read—no Congreve rocket
Discharged into the Gallic trenches, E'er equall’d the tremendous shock it
Produc'd upon the Nursery Benches. The Bishops, who, of course had votes,
By right of age and petticoats, Were first and foremost in the fuss
“ What, whip a Lamal-suffer birch To touch his sacred infamous ! Deistical l-assailing thus
The fundamentals of the Church ! No-no_such patriot plans as these (So help them Heaven—and their sees!) They held to be rank blasphemies."
The alarm thus given, by these and other
Grave ladies of the Nursery side, Spread through the land, till, such a pother Such party squabbles, far and wide,
Never in history's page had been
Which gave some fears of revolution,
Was put at last in execution.
The little Lama call'd before it,
And though 'mong Thibet Tories, some
So much is Thibet's land a debtor, 'Tis said her little Lamas since
Have all behaved themselves much better.
And is there then no earthly place
Where we can rest, in dream Elysian, Without some cursed, round English face,
Popping up near, to break the vision!
'Mid northern lakes, 'mid southern vines,
Unholy cits we're doom'd to meet; Nor highest Alps nor Appenines
Are sacred from Threadneedle-street.
If up the Simplon's path we wind,