The whole put down, in the simplest way, By the souls resolving not to pay! And even the Papists, thankless race, Who have had so much the easiest case,— To pay for our sermons doom'd, 't is true, But not condemn'd to hear them, too,— (Our holy business being, 't is known, With the ears of their barley, not their own). Even they object to let us pillage, By right divine, their tenth of tillage, And, horror of horrors, even decline To find us in sacramental wine! (1)
It is o'er, it is o'er, my reign is o'er, Ah, never shall rosy Rector more, Like the shepherds of Israel, idly eat,
And make of his flock " a prey and meat.” (2) No more shall be his the pastoral sport Of suing his flock in the Bishop's Court, Through various steps, Citation, Libel,— Scriptures all, but not the Bible; Working the law's whole apparatus, To get at a few pre-doom'd potatoes, And summoning all the powers of wig, To settle the fraction of a pig!- Till, parson and all committed deep
In the case of "Shepherds versus Sheep,"
(*) Among the specimens laid before Parliament of the sort of Churchrates levied upon Catholics in Ireland, was a charge of two pipes of port for sacramental wine.
(*) Ezekiel xxxiv .8.-"Neither shall the shepherds feed themselves any more; for I will deliver my flock from their mouth, that they may not be meat for them."-V. 10.
The Law usurps the Gospel's place, And, on Sundays, meeting face to face, While Plaintiff fills the preacher's station, Defendants form the congregation.
So lives he, Mammon's priest, not Heaven's, For tenths thus all at sixes and sevens, Seeking what parsons love no less Than tragic poets—a good distress. Instead of studying St. Augustin, Gregory Nyss., or old St. Justin, (Books fit only to hoard dust in,) His reverence stints his evening readings To learn'd Reports of Tithe Proceedings, Sipping, the while, that port so ruddy, Which forms his only ancient study;- Port so old, you'd swear its tartar Was of the age of Justin Martyr,
And, had the Saint sipp'd such, no doubt His martyrdom would have been-to gout.
Is all then lost?-alas, too true,- Ye Tenths beloved, adieu, adieu ! My reign is o'er, my reign is o'er,-
Like old Thumb's ghost, "I can no more."
"We are told that the bigots are growing old and fast wearing out.
If it be so, why not let us die in peace ?"
Lord Bexley's Letter to the Freeholders of Kent.
STOP, Intellect, in mercy stop,
Ye curst improvements, cease;
And let poor Nick V-ns-tt-t drop
Into his grave in peace.
Hide, Knowledge, hide thy rising sun, Young Freedom, veil thy head; Let nothing good be thought or done, Till Nick V-ns-tt-t's dead!
Take pity on a dotard's fears, Who much doth light detest; And let his last few drivelling years Be dark as were the rest.
You, too, ye fleeting one-pound notes,
Speed not so fast away
Ye rags, on which old Nicky gloats, A few months longer stay. (1)
Together soon, or much I err,
You both from life may go,— The notes unto the scavenger, And Nick-to Nick below.
(2) Perituræ parcere charta.
Ye Liberals, whate'er your plan, Be all reforms suspended;
In compliment to dear old Van, Let nothing bad be mended.
Ye Papists, whom oppression wrings, Your cry politely cease,
And fret your hearts to fiddle-strings That Van may die in peace.
So shall he win a fame sublime By few old rag-men gain'd; Since all shall own, in Nicky's time, Nor sense, nor justice reign'd.
So shall his name through ages past, And dolts ungotten yet,
Date from "the days of Nicholas," With fond and sad regret ;—
And sighing say, "alas, had he Been spared from Pluto's bowers,
The blessed reign of Bigotry
And Rags might still be ours!"
ONE OF THE SIXTEEN REQUISITIONISTS OF NOTTINGHAM.
WHAT, you, too, my Of sauces and soups Aristarchus profest! Are you, too, my savoury Brunswicker, going To make an old fool of yourself with the rest?
****** in hashes so knowing,
Far better to stick to your kitchen receipts;
And if something to tease you must have, for variety, Go study how Ude, in his "Cookery," treats
Live eels, when he wants them for polish'd society.
Just snuggling them in, 'twixt the bars of the fire, He leaves them to wriggle and writhe on the coals, (1) In a manner that H-r-r himself would admire,
And wish, 'stead of eels, they were Catholic souls.
Ude tells us, the fish little suffering feels;
While Papists, of late, have more sensitive grown; So, take my advice, try your hand at live eels, And, for once, let the other poor devils alone.
I have ev'n a still better receipt for your cook,- How to make a goose die of confirm'd hepatitis; (1) And, if you 'll, for once, fellow-feelings o'erlook, A well-tortured goose a most capital sight is.
First, catch him, alive,—make a good steady fire,- Set your victim before it, both legs being tied, (As,-if left to himself,-he might wish to retire), And place a large bowl of rich cream by his side.
There roasting by inches, dry, fever'd, and faint, Having drunk all the cream, you so civilly laid, off, He dies of as charming a liver complaint
As ever sleek parson could wish a pie made of.
(1) The only way, Monsieur Ude assures us, to get rid of the oil so objectionable in this fish.
(2) A liver complaint. The process by which the livers of geese are enlarged for the famous Pátés de foie d'oie.
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