"When, loth poor W-LL-SL-Y to condemn, he "With nice discrimination weigh'd, "Whether 'twas only Hell and Jemmy,' "Or Hell and Tommy' that he play'd.

"No, no, my worthy beaver, no

"Though cheapen'd at the cheapest hatter's, "And smart enough, as beavers go,

"Thou ne'er wert made for public matters."

Here Wig concluded his oration,

Looking, as wigs do, wondrous wise; While thus, full cock'd for declamation, The veteran Hat enrag'd replies:

"Ha! dost thou then so soon forget

"What thou, what England owes to me? "Ungrateful Wig!--when will a debt,

"So deep, so vast, be owed to thee?

"Think of that night, that fearful night, "When, through the steaming vault below, "Our master dar'd, in gout's despite,

"To venture his podagric toe!

"Who was it then, thou boaster, say,
"When thou had'st to thy box sneak'd off,
"Beneath his feet protecting lay,

"And sav'd him from a mortal cough?

"Think, if Catarrh had quench'd that sun,
"How blank this world had been to thee!
"Without that head to shine upon,

"Oh Wig, where would thy glory be? "You, too, ye Britons-had this hope

"Of Church and State been ravish'd from ye, "Oh think, how Canning and the Pope

"Would then have play'd up 'Hell and Tommy!'

"At sca, there's but a plank, they say,
""Twixt seamen and annihilation;

"A Hat, that awful moment, lay
""Twixt England and Emancipation!
"Oh!!!-99

At this "Oh!!!" The Times' Reporter
Was taken poorly, and retir'd;
Which made him cut Hat's rhetoric shorter,
Than justice to the case requir'd.

On his return, he found these shocks
Of eloquence all ended quite;

And Wig lay snoring in his box,

And Hat was hung up for the night.

THE PERIWINKLES AND THE LOCUSTS.

A SALMAGUNDIAN HYMN.

"To Panurge was assigned the Lairdship of Salmagundi, which was yearly worth 6,789,106,789 ryals, besides the revenue of the Locusts and Periwinkles, amounting one year with another to the value of 2,435,768," &c. &c. - RABELAIS.

"HURRA! hurra!" I heard them say,

And they cheer'd and shouted all the way,
As the Laird of Salmagundi went,
To open in state his Parliament,

The Salmagundians once were rich,
Or thought they were no matter which-
For, every year, the Revenue'

From their Periwinkles larger grew,
And their rulers, skill'd in all the trick
And legerdemain of arithmetic
Knew how to place 1, 2, 3, 4,

5, 6, 7, 8, and 9 and 10,
Such various ways, behind, before,
That they made a unit seem a score,

And prov'd themselves most wealthy men! So, on they went, a prosperous crew,

The people wise, the rulers cleverAnd God help those, like me and you, Who dar'd to doubt (as some now do) That the Periwinkle Revenue

Would thus go flourishing on for ever. "Hurra! hurra!" I heard them say, And they cheer'd and shouted all the way, As the Great Panurge in glory went To open his own dear Parliament. But folks at length began to doubt What all this conjuring was about; For, every day, more deep in debt They saw their wealthy rulers get:"Let's look (said they) the items through, "And see if what we're told be true "Of our Periwinkle Revenue." But, Lord! they found there wasn't a tittle Of truth in aught they heard before; For, they gain'd by Periwinkles little,

And lost by Locusts ten times more! These Locusts are a lordly breed Some Salmagundians love to feed. Of all the beasts that ever were born, Your Locust most delights in corn; And, though his body be but small, To fatten him takes the devil and all! "Oh fie! oh fie!" was now the cry, As they saw the gaudy show go by, And the Laird of Salmagundi went To open his Locust Parliament!

1 Accented as in Swift's line

"Not so a nation's revenues are paid."

TOUT POUR LA TRIPE.

"If, in China or among the natives of India, we claimed civil advantages which were connected with religious usages, little as we might value those forms in our hearts, we should think common decency required us to abstain from treating them with offensive contumely; and, though unable to consider them sacred, we would not sneer at the name of Fot, or laugh at the imputed divinity of Visthnou."—Courier, Tuesday, Jan. 16.

1827.

COME, take my advice, never trouble your cranium, When " civil advantages are to be gain'd, What god or what goddess may help to obtain you 'em,

Hindoo or Chinese, so they're only obtain❜d.

In this world (let me hint in your organ auricular) All the good things to good hypocrites fall; And he, who in swallowing creeds is particular, Soon will have nothing to swallow at all.

Oh place me where Fo (or, as some call him, Fot)

Is the god, from whom "civil advantages" flow, And you'll find, if there's anything snug to be got,

I shall soon be on excellent terms with old Fo.

Hence, they who maintain me, grown sick of my

stature,

To cover me nothing but rags will supply; And the doctors declare that, in due course of nature,

About the year 30 in rags I shall die. Meanwhile, I stalk hungry and bloated around, In the warehouse, the cottage, the palace I'm found, An object of int'rest, most painful, to all; Holding citizen, peasant, and king in my thrall Then riddle-me-ree, oh riddle-me-ree, Come, tell me what my name may be.

When the lord of the counting-house bends o'er his book,

Bright pictures of profit delighting to draw, O'er his shoulders with large cipher eye-balls I look. And down drops the pen from his paralyz'd paw! When the Premier lies dreaming of dear Waterloo, And expects through another to caper and You'd laugh did you see, when I bellow out “Boo!" prank it, How he hides his brave Waterloo head in the

ENIGMA.

Monstrum nulla virtute redemptum.

COME, riddle-me-ree, come, riddle-me-ree,
And tell me what my name may be.
I am nearly one hundred and thirty years old,

And therefore no chicken, as you may suppose;— Though a dwarf in my youth (as my nurses have told),

I have, ev'ry year since, been outgrowing my clothes;

Till, at last, such a corpulent giant I stand,

That, if folks were to furnish me now with a suit, It would take ev'ry morsel of scrip in the land But to measure my bulk from the head to the foot.

1 Vishnu was (as Sir W. Jones calls him) "a pisciform god,"his first Avatar being in the shape of a fish.

Lying stretch'd on the beach, in the sun."What's the number of souls in this town?""The number! Lord bless you, there's none. "We have nothing but dabs in this place, "Of them a great plenty there are; "But the soles, please your rev'rence and grace, "Are all t'other side of the bar."

And so 'tis in London just now,

Not a soul to be seen, up or down;Of dabs a great glut, I allow,

But your soles, every one, out of town.