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RIVAL TOPICS.*

AN EXTRAVAGANZA.

OH W-11-ngt-n and Stephenson,
Oh morn and evening papers,

Times, Herald, Courier, Globe, and Sun,
When will ye cease our ears to stun
With these two heroes' capers?
Still"Stephenson" and "W-1l-ngt-n,"

The everlasting two!

Still doom'd, from rise to set of sun,

To hear what mischief one has done,
And t'other means to do:-

What bills the banker pass'd to friends,

But never meant to pay;

What Bills the other wight intends,

As honest, in their way;—

*The date of this squib must have been, I think, about

1828-9.

Bills, payable at distant sight,

Beyond the Grecian kalends,

When all good deeds will come to light, When W-ll-ngt-n will do what's right, And Rowland pay his balance.

To catch the banker all have sought,
But still the rogue unhurt is;

While t'other juggler-who'd have thought?
Though slippery long, has just been caught
By old Archbishop Curtis;-

And, such the power of papal crook,
The crosier scarce had quiver'd
About his ears, when, lo, the Duke
Was of a Bull deliver'd!

Sir Richard Birnie doth decide
That Rowland "must be mad,"
In private coach, with crest, to ride,
When chaises could be had.

And t'other hero, all agree,

St. Luke's will soon arrive at,

If thus he shows off publicly,

When he might pass in private.

Oh W-11-ngt-n, oh Stephenson,

Ye ever-boring pair,

Where'er I sit, or stand, or run,

Ye haunt me every where.

Though Job had patience tough enough,
Such duplicates would try it;

Till one's turn'd out and t'other off,
We shan't have peace or quiet.

But small's the chance that Law affords—
Such folks are daily let off;

And, 'twixt the' Old Bailey and the Lords, They both, I fear, will get off.

THE BOY STATESMAN.

BY A TORY.

"That boy will be the death of me."

Matthews at Home.

Ан, Tories dear, our ruin is near,

With St-nl-y to help us, we can't but fall; Already a warning voice I hear,

Like the late Charles Matthews' croak in my ear,

"That boy-that boy'll be the death of

you

all."

He will, God help us!—not ev'n Scriblerius
In the "Art of Sinking" his match could be;
And our case is growing exceeding serious,
For, all being in the same boat as he,
If down my Lord goes, down go we,
Lord Baron St-nl-y and Company,
As deep in Oblivion's swamp below

As such "Masters Shallow" well could go;

And where we shall all both low and high,
Embalm'd in mud, as forgotten lie

As already doth Gr-h-m of Netherby!
But that boy, that boy!—there's a tale I know,
Which in talking of him comes à-propos.
Sir Thomas More had an only son,

And a foolish lad was that only one,

And Sir Thomas said, one day to his wife, "My dear, I can't but wish you joy,

"For you pray'd for a boy, and you now have a boy, "Who'll continue a boy to the end of his life."

Ev'n such is our own distressing lot,

With the ever-young statesman we have got; -
Nay ev'n still worse; for Master More
Wasn't more a youth than he'd been before,

While ours such power of boyhood shows,
That, the older he gets, the more juv'nile he grows,
And, at what extreme old age he'll close
His schoolboy course, heaven only knows ;
Some century hence, should he reach so far,

And ourselves to witness it heav'n condemn,
We shall find him a sort of cub Old Parr,

A whipper-snapper Methusalem;

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