Classic Poem

St. James's Street, July 1, 1826

Great Sir, having just had the good luck to catch
An official young Demon, preparing to go,
Ready booted and spurred, with a black-leg despatch
From the Hell here, at Crockford's, to our Hell, below--

I write these few lines to your Highness Satanic,
To say that, first having obeyed your directions,
And done all the mischief I could in the "the Panic',
My next special care was to help the Elections.

Well knowing how dear were those times to thy soul,
When ev'ry good Christian tormented his brother,
And caused, in thy realm, such a saving of coal,
From all coming down, ready grilled by each other;

Remembering, besides, how it pained thee to part
With the Old Penal Code--that chef-d'oeuvre of Law,
In which (though to own it too modest thou art)
We could plainly perceive the fine touch of thy claw;

I thought, as we ne'er can those good times revive,
(Though Eldon, with help from your Highness would try),
'Twould still keep a taste for Hell's music alive,
Could we get up a thund'ring No-Popery cry;--

That yell which, when chorused by laics and clerics,
So like is to ours, in its spirit and tone,
That I often nigh laugh myself into hysterics,
To think that Religion should make it her own.

So, having sent down for th' original notes
Of the chorus, as sung by your Majesty's choir,
With a few pints of lava, to gargle the throats
Of myself and some others, who sing it "with fire',

Thought I, "if the Marseillois Hymn could command
Such audience, though yelled by a Sans-culotte crew,
What wonders shall we do, who've men in our band,
That not only wear breeches, but petticoats too.'

Such then were my hopes; but with sorrow, your Highness,
I'm forced to confess--be the cause what it will,
Whether fewness of voices, or hoarseness, or shyness--
Our Beelzebub Chorus has gone off but ill.

The truth is, not placeman now knows his right key,
The Treasury pitch-pipe of late is so various;
And certain base voices, that looked for a fee
At the York music-meeting, now think it precarious.

Even some of our Reverends might have been warmer--
Though one or two capital roarers we've had;
Doctor Wise is, for instance, a charming performer,
And Huntingdon Maberley's yell was not bad!

Altogether, however, the thing was not hearty;--
Even Eldon allows we got on but so so;
And when next we attempt a No-Popery party,
We must, please your Highness, recruit from below.

But, hark, the young Black-leg is cracking his whip--
Excuse me, Great Sir--there's no time to be civil;
The next opportunity shan't be let slip,
But, till then,
I'm, in haste, your most dutiful