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
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
Do I possess your confidence or no?
HE.—You shall not vex
me, though your treatment’s rough;
No, madam, I am made of sterner stuff.
HE.—Really, if thus
your minister you flout,
A single syllable he can’t get out.
HE.—But try me, madam;
time indeed will show
Unto what lengths to serve you I would go.
HE.—We both have power,—’tis
doubtful which is greater;
These crooked words had better be made straighter.
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
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
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!”