Folks well knew what
Would soon be its lot,
When Frederick and Jenky set hob-nobbing,[1]
And said to each other,
"Suppose, dear brother,
"We make this funny old Fund worth robbing."
We are come, alas!
To a very pretty pass--
Eight Hundred Millions of score, to pay,
With but Five in the till,
To discharge the bill,
And even that Five, too, whipt away!
Stop thief! stop thief!--
From the Sub to the Chief,
These _Gemmen_ of Finance are plundering cattle--
Call the watch--call Brougham,
Tell Joseph Hume,
That best of Charleys, to spring his rattle.
Whoever will bring
This aforesaid thing
To the well-known House of Robinson and Jenkin,
Shall be paid, with thanks,
In the notes of banks,
Whose Funds have all learned "the Art of Sinking."
O yes! O yes!
Can anybody guess
What the devil has become of this Treasury wonder?
It has Pitt's name on't,
All brass, in the front,
And Robinson's, scrawled with a goose-quill under.
[1] In 1824, when the Sinking Fund was raised by the imposition of new
taxes to the sum of five millions.
ODE TO THE GODDESS CERES.
BY SIR THOMAS LETHBRIDGE.
"legiferoe Cereri Phoeboque."--VERGIL.
Dear Goddess of Corn whom the ancients, we know,
(Among other odd whims of those comical bodies,)
Adorned with somniferous poppies to show
Thou wert always a true Country-gentleman's Goddess.
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