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?

SHE.—­No.

HE.—­You shall not vex me, though your treatment’s rough;
No, madam, I am made of sterner stuff.

SHE.—­Stuff.

HE.—­Really, if thus your minister you flout,
A single syllable he can’t get out.

SHE.—­Get out!

HE.—­But try me, madam; time indeed will show
Unto what lengths to serve you I would go.

SHE.—­Go.

HE.—­We both have power,—­’tis doubtful which is greater;
These crooked words had better be made straighter.

SHE.—­Traighter (Traitor.)

HE.—­Farewell! and never in this friendly strain
(My proffer’d aid foregone) I breathe again!

SHE.—­Gone.  I breathe again!

* * * * *

SONGS OF THE SEEDY.—­NO. 2.

I cannot rove with thee, where zephyrs float—­
Sweet sylvan scenes devoted to the loves!—­
For, oh!  I have not got one decent coat,
Nor can I sport a single pair of gloves.

  Gladly I’d wander o’er the verdant lawn,
    Where graze contentedly the fleecy flock;
  But can I show myself in gills so torn,
    Or brave the public gaze in such a stock?

  I know thou’lt answer me that love is blind,
    And faults in one it worships can’t perceive;
  It must be sightless, truly, not to find
    The hole that’s gaping in my threadbare sleeve.

  Farewell, my love—­for, oh! by heaven, we part,
    And though it cost me all the pangs of hell. 
  The herd shall not on thee inflict a smart,
    By calling after us—­“There goes a swell!”