Well knowing how dear were those times to thy soul,
When every 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 (tho' 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,
(Tho' Eldon, with help from your Highness would try,)
'Twould still keep a taste for Hell's music alive,
Could we get up a thundering 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 the 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,"[1]
Thought I, "if the Marseillais Hymn could command
"Such audience, tho' 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.
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