To catch the banker all have sought,
But still the rogue unhurt is;
While t'other juggler--who'd have thought?
Tho' slippery long, has just been caught
By old Archbishop Curtis;--
And, such the power of papal crook,
The crosier scarce had quivered
About his ears, when, lo! the Duke
Was of a Bull delivered!
Sir Richard Birnie doth decide
That Rowland "must be mad,"
In private coach, with crest, to ride,
When chaises could be had.
And t'other hero, all agree,
St. Luke's will soon arrive at,
If thus he shows off publicly,
When he might pass in private.
Oh Wellington, oh Stephenson,
Ye ever-boring pair,
Where'er I sit, or stand, or run,
Ye haunt me everywhere.
Tho' Job had patience tough enough,
Such duplicates would try it;
Till one's turned out and t'other off,
We Shan' have peace or quiet.
But small's the chance that Law affords--
Such folks are daily let off;
And, 'twixt the old Bailey and the Lords,
They both, I fear, will get off.
[1] The date of this squib must have been, I think, about 1828-9.
THE BOY STATESMAN.
BY A TORY.
"That boy will be the death of me."
_Matthews at Home_.
Ah, Tories dear, our ruin is near,
With Stanley to help us, we can't but fall;
Already a warning voice I hear,
Like the late Charles Matthews' croak in my ear,
"That boy--that boy'll be the death of you all.
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