Stead of barrels, let's light up an _Auto da Fe_
Of a few good combustible Lords of "the Club;"
They would fume in a trice, the Whig cholera away,
And there's Bucky would burn like a barrel of bub.
How Roden would blaze! and what rubbish throw out!
A volcano of nonsense in active display;
While Vane, as a butt, amidst laughter, would spout
The hot nothings he's full of, all night and all day.
And then, for a finish, there's Cumberland's Duke,--
Good Lord, how his chin-tuft would crackle in air!
Unless (as is shrewdly surmised from his look)
He's already bespoke for combustion elsewhere.
[1] The Marquis of Hertford's Fete.--From dread of cholera his Lordship
had ordered tar-barrels to be burned in every direction.
THE CONSULTATION.[1]
"When they _do_ agree, their unanimity is
wonderful. _The Critic_.
1833.
_Scene discovers Dr. Whig and Dr. Tory in consultation. Patient on the
floor between them_.
_Dr. Whig_.--This wild Irish patient _does_ pester me so.
That what to do with him, I'm curst if I know.
I've _promist_ him anodynes--
_Dr. Tory_. Anodynes!--Stuff.
Tie him down--gag him well--he'll be tranquil enough.
That's _my_ mode of practice.
_Dr Whig_. True, quite in _your_ line,
But unluckily not much, till lately, in _mine_.
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