Parties are much like fish, 'tis said--
The tail directs them, not the head;
Then how could _any_ party fail,
That steered its course by Bathurst's tail?
Not Murat's plume thro' Wagram's fight
E'er shed such guiding glories from it,
As erst in all true Tories sight,
Blazed from our old Colonial comet!
If you, my Lord, a Bashaw were,
(As Wellington will be anon)
Thou mightst have had a tail to spare;
But no! alas! thou hadst but one,
And _that_--like Troy, or Babylon,
A tale of other times--is gone!
Yet--weep ye not, ye Tories true--
Fate has not yet of all bereft us;
Though thus deprived of Bathurst's _queue_,
We've Ellenborough's _curls_ still left us:--
Sweet curls, from which young Love, so vicious,
His shots, as from nine-pounders, issues;
Grand, glorious curls, which in debate
Surcharged with all a nation's fate,
His Lordship shakes, as Homer's God did,[2]
And oft in thundering talk comes near him;
Except that there the _speaker_ nodded
And here 'tis only those who hear him.
Long, long, ye ringlets, on the soil
Of that fat cranium may ye flourish,
With plenty of Macassar oil
Thro' many a year your growth to nourish!
And ah! should Time too soon unsheath
His barbarous shears such locks to sever,
Still dear to Tories even in death,
Their last loved relics we'll bequeath,
A _hair_-loom to our sons for ever.
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