Then all the guests rose up, and sighed good-bye!
So let them :-thou thyself art still a Host!
Dibdin-Cornaro-Newton-Mrs. Fry!

Mrs. Glasse, Mr. Spec!-Lovelass—and Weber,
Matthews in Quot'em-Moore's fire-worshipping

Gheber

Thrice-worthy Worthy, seem by thee engrossed!
Howbeit the Peptic Cook still rules the roast,
Potent to hush all ventriloquial snarling—
And ease the bosom pangs of indigestion !
Thou art, sans question,

The Corporation's love-its Doctor Darling!
Look at the Civic Palate—nay, the bed
Which set dear Mrs. Opie on supplying
"Illustrations of Lying!

Ninety square feet of down from heel to head
It measured, and I dread

Was haunted by that terrible night Mare,
A monstrous burthen on the corporation!
Look at the Bill of Fare, for one day's share,
Sea-turtles by the score-Oxen by droves,
Geese, turkeys, by the flock-fishes and loaves
Countless, as when the Lilliputian nation
Was making up the huge man-mountain's ration!

Oh worthy Doctor! surely thou hast driven
The squatting Demon from great Garratt's breast—
(His honour seemed to rest !——)

And what is thy reward?—Hath London given
Thee public thanks for thy important service?
Alas! not even

The tokens it bestowed on Howe and Jervis !—
Yet could I speak as Orators should speak
Before the worshipful the Common Council,
(Utter my bold bad grammar and pronounce ill,)
Thou should'st not miss thy Freedom, for a week,
Richly engrossed on vellum:-Reason urges
That he who rules our cookery—that he
Who edits soups and gravies, ought to be
A Citizen, where sauce can make a Burgess !

AN ADDRESS TO THE VERY REVEREND

JOHN IRELAND, D. D.

CHARLES FYNES CLINTON, LL.D. W.M.H. EDWARD BENTINCK, M.A.
THOMAS CAUSTON, D.D.
JAMES WEBBER, B.D.

HOWEL HOLLAND EDWARDS, M.A. WILLIAM SHORT, D.D.

"Sure the Guardians of the Temple can never think they get enough."

CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.

Он, very reverend Dean and Chapter,
Exhibitors of giant men,

Hail to each surplice-backed Adapter

Of England's dead, in her Stone den! Ye teach us properly to prize

Two-shilling Grays, and Gays, and Handels, And, to throw light upon our eyes,

Deal in Wax Queens like old wax candles.

Oh, reverend showmen, rank and file,
Call in your shillings, two and two;
March with them up the middle aisle,
And cloister them from public view.
Yours surely are the dusty dead,

Gladly ye look from bust to bust,
Setting a price on each great head,
To make it come down with the dust.

Oh, as I see you walk along

In ample sleeves and ample back A pursy and well-ordered throng, Thoroughly fed, thoroughly black! In vain I strive me to be dumb

(435)

You keep each bard like fatted kid,
Grind bones for bread like Fee faw fum!
And drink from skulls as Byron did !

The profitable Abbey is

A Sacred Change for stony stock,
Not that a speculation 'tis—

The profit's founded on a rock.
Death. Dean, and Doctors, in each nave
Bony investments have inurned !
And hard 'twould be to find a grave
From which no money is returned !”

Here many a pensive pilgrim, brought
By reverence for those learned bones,
Shall often come and walk your short
Two-shilling fare upon the stones.—
Ye have that talisman of Wealth,

Which puddling chemists sought of old,
Till ruined out of hope and health ;—
The Tomb's the stone that turns to gold!

Oh, licensed cannibals, ye eat

Your dinners from your own dead race,
Think Gray, preserved, a “funeral meat,”
And Dryden, deviled, after grace,
A relish:-and you take your meal
From Rare Ben Jonson underdone,
Or, whet your holy knives on Steele,
To cut away at Addison!

O say, of all this famous age,

Whose learned bones your hopes expect,

Oh have ye numbered Rydal's sage,

Or Moore among your Ghosts elect?

Since this poem was written, Doctor Ireland and those in authority under him have reduced the fares. It is gratifying to the English People to know, that while butchers' meat is rising, tombs are falling

Lord Byron was not doomed to make
You richer by his final sleep--
Why don't ye warn the Great to take
Their ashes to no other heap?

Southey's reversion have ye got?
With Coleridge, for his body, made
A bargain?-has Sir Walter Scott,
Like Peter Schlemihl, sold his shade?
Has Rogers haggled hard, or sold

His features for your marble shows,
Or Campbell bartered, ere he's cold,
All interest in his "bone repose?'

Rare is your show, ye righteous men!
Priestly Politos-rare, I ween;
But should ye not outside the Den
Paint up what in it may be seen?
A long green Shakspeare, with a deer
Grasped in the many folds it died in-
A Butler stuffed from ear to ear,

Wet White Bears weeping o'er a Dry-den!

Paint Garrick up like Mr. Paap,
A Giant of some inches high;
Paint Handel up, that organ chap,
With you, as grinders, in his eye;
Depict some plaintive antique thing,
And say th' original may be seen ;—
Blind Milton with a dog and string
May be the Beggar o' Bethnal Green!

Put up in Poet's Corner, near
The little door, a platform small;
Get there a monkey-never fear,
You'll catch the gapers one and all!

Stand each of ye a Body Guard,
A Trumpet under either fin,

And yell away in Palace Yard

"All dead! All dead! Walk in! Walk in!"

(But when the people are inside,
Their money paid-I pray you, bid
The keepers not to mount and ride
A race around each coffin lid.—
Poor Mrs. Bodkin thought last year,
That it was hard-the woman clacks-
To have so little in her ear—

And be so hurried through the Wax !—)

"Walk in! two shillings only! come! Be not by country grumblers funked !— Walk in, and see th' illustrious dumb!

The Cheapest House for the defunct!"
Write up, 'twill breed some just reflection,
And every rude surmise 'twill stop—
Write up, that you have no connection
(In large)—with any other shop!

And still, to catch the Clowns the more,
With samples of your shows in Wax,
Set some old Harry near the door

To answer queries with his axe.—
Put up some general begging-trunk—
Since the last broke by some mishap,
You've all a bit of General Monk,

From the respect you bore his Cap!