With doubled fist his cushion’d seat;
  And though sometimes, each breathless pause between,
          Astonished Melbourne at his side,
          His moderating voice applied,
  Yet still he kept his stern, unalter’d mien,
  While battering the Whigs and Tories black and blue.

  Thy ravings, Goulburn, to no theme were fix’d. 
    Not ev’n thy virtue is without its spots;
  With piety thy politics were mix’d,
    And now they courted Peel, now call’d on Doctor Watts.

  With drooping jaw, like one half-screw’d,
  Lord Johnny sate in doleful mood,
  And for his Secretarial seat,
  Sent forth his howlings sad, but sweet
  Lost Normanby pour’d forth his sad adieu;
          While Palmerston, with graceful air,
          Wildly toss’d his scented hair;
  And pensive Morpeth join’d the sniv’lling crew. 
    Yet still they lingered round with fond delay,
          Humming, hawing, stopping, musing,
          Tory rascals all abusing,
    Till forced to move away.

  But, oh! how alter’d was the whining tone
    When, loud-tongued Lyndhurst, that unblushing wight,
  His gown across his shoulders flung,
    His wig with virgin-powder white,
  Made an ear-splitting speech that down to Windsor rung,
  The Tories’ call, that Billy Holmes well knew,
  The turn-coat Downshire and his Orange crew;
  Wicklow and Howard both were seen
  Brushing away the wee bit green;
  Mad Londonderry laugh’d to hear,
  And Inglis scream’d and shook his ass’s ear

  Last Bobby Peel, with hypocritic air,
    He with modest look came sneaking: 
  First to “the Home” his easy vows addrest,—­
    But soon he saw the Treasury’s red chair,
  Whose soft inviting seat he loved the best. 
  They would have thought, who heard his words,
  They saw in Britain’s cause a patriot stand,
  The proud defender of his land,
  To aw’d and list’ning senates speaking;—­

  But as his fingers touch’d the purse’s strings,
    The chinking metal made a magic sound,
    While hungry placemen gather’d fast around: 
    And he, as if by chance or play,
    Or that he would their venal votes repay,
  The golden treasures round upon them flings.

* * * * *

SIR ROBERT PEEL AND THE QUEEN.

Upon the first interview of the Queen with Sir Robert Peel, her Majesty was determined to answer only in monosyllables to all he said; and, in fact, to make her replies an echo, and nothing more, to whatever he said to her.  The following dialogue, which we have thrown into verse for the purpose of smoothing it—­the tone of it, as spoken, having been on one side, at least, rather rough—­ensued between the illustrious persons alluded to.

HE.—­Before we into minor details go,
Do I possess your confidence or no?