Oh! who that e'er saw him when vocal he stands,
With a look something midway 'twixt Filch's and Lockit's,
While still, to inspire him, his deeply-thrust hands
Keep jingling the rhino in both breeches-pockets--
Who that ever has listened thro' groan and thro' cough,
To the speeches inspired by this music of pence,--
But must grieve that there's any thing like _falling off_
In that great nether source of his wit and his sense?
Who that knows how he lookt when, with grace debonair,
He began first to court--rather late in the season--
Or when, less fastidious, he sat in the chair
Of his old friend, the Nottingham Goddess of Reason;[1]
That Goddess whose borough-like virtue attracted
All mongers in _both_ wares to proffer their love;
Whose chair like the stool of the Pythoness acted,
As Wetherel's rants ever since go to prove;
_Who_ in short would not grieve if a man of his graces
Should go on rejecting, unwarned by the past,
The "moderate Reform" of a pair of new braces,
Till, some day,--he'll all fall to pieces at last.
[1] It will be recollected that the learned gentleman himself boasted, one
night, in the House of Commons, of having sat in the very chair which this
allegorical lady had occupied.
TORY PLEDGES.
Pages:
1195
1196
1197
1198
1199
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219