So rides along, with canter smooth and pleasant,
That horseman bold, Lord Anglesea, at present;--
_Papist_ and _Protestant_ the coursers twain,
That lend their necks to his impartial rein,
And round the ring--each honored, as they go,
With equal pressure from his gracious toe--
To the old medley tune, half "Patrick's Day"
And half "Boyne Water," take their cantering way,
While Peel, the showman in the middle, cracks
His long-lasht whip to cheer the doubtful hacks.
Ah, ticklish trial of equestrian art!
How blest, if neither steed would bolt or start;--
If _Protestant's_ old restive tricks were gone,
And _Papist's_ winkers could be still kept on!
But no, false hopes--not even the great Ducrow
'Twixt two such steeds could 'scape an overthrow:
If _solar_ hacks played Phaeton a trick,
What hope, alas, from hackneys _lunatic_?
If once my Lord his graceful balance loses,
Or fails to keep each foot where each horse chooses;
If Peel but gives one _extra_ touch of whip
To _Papist's_ tail or _Protestant's_ ear-tip--
That instant ends their glorious horsmanship!
Off bolt the severed steeds, for mischief free.
And down between them plumps Lord Anglesea!
THE LIMBO OF LOST REPUTATIONS.
A DREAM.
"_Cio che si perde qui, la si raguna_."
ARIOSTO.
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