And think, poor man, 'tis only given
To linsey-woolsey to reach Heaven!
Just fancy what a shock 'twould be
Our Goulburn in his fits to see,
Tearing into a thousand particles
His once-loved Nine and Thirty Articles;
(Those Articles his friend, the Duke,[1]
For Gospel, t'other night, mistook;)
Cursing cathedrals, deans and singers--
Wishing the ropes might hang the ringers--
Pelting the church with blasphemies,
Even worse than Parson Beverley's;--
And ripe for severing Church and State,
Like any creedless reprobate,
Or like that class of Methodists
Prince Waterloo styles "Atheists!"
But 'tis too much--the Muse turns pale,
And o'er the picture drops a veil,
Praying, God save the Goulburns all
From mad Dissenters great and small!
[1] The Duke of Wellington, who styled them "the Articles of
Christianity."
A DREAM OF HINDOSTAN.
--risum _tenaetis, amici_
"The longer one lives, the more one learns,"
Said I, as off to sleep I went,
Bemused with thinking of Tithe concerns,
And reading a book by the Bishop of FERNS,[1]
On the Irish Church Establishment.
But lo! in sleep not long I lay,
When Fancy her usual tricks began,
And I found myself bewitched away
To a goodly city in Hindostan--
A city where he who dares to dine
On aught but rice is deemed a sinner;
Where sheep and kine are held divine,
And accordingly--never drest for dinner.
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