Classic Poem

Stop , Intellect, in mercy stop,
Ye curst improvements, cease;
And let poor Nick Vansittart 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 Vansittart '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.

Together soon, or much I err,
You both from life may go —
The notes unto the scavenger,
And Nick — to Nick below.

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 peace.

So shall he win a fame sublime
By few old rag-men gained;
Since all shall own, in Nicky's time,
Nor sense nor justice reigned.

So shall his name thro' 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! "