Come, step in, gentlefolks, here ye may view
An exact and natural representation
(Like Siburn's Model of Waterloo[1])
Of the Lords and Commons of this here nation.
There they are--all cut out in cork--
The "Collective Wisdom" wondrous to see;
My eyes! when all them heads are at work,
What a vastly weighty consarn it must be.
As for the "wisdom,"--_that_ may come anon;
Tho', to say truth, we sometimes see
(And I find the phenomenon no uncommon 'un)
A man who's M.P. with a head that's M.T.
Our Lords are _rather_ too small, 'tis true;
But they do well enough for Cabinet shelves;
And, besides,--_what's_ a man with creeturs to do
That make such _werry_ small figures themselves?
There--dont touch those lords, my pretty dears--(_Aside_.)
Curse the children!--this comes of reforming a nation:
Those meddling young brats have so damaged my peers,
I must lay in more cork for a new creation.
Them yonder's our bishops--"to whom much is given,"
And who're ready to take as much more as you please:
The seers of old time saw visions of heaven,
But these holy seers see nothing but Sees.
Like old Atlas[2](the chap, in Cheapside, there below,)
'Tis for so much _per cent_, they take heaven on their shoulders;
And joy 'tis to know that old High Church and Co.,
Tho' not capital priests, are such capital-holders.
There's one on 'em, Phillpotts, who now is away,
As we're having him filled with bumbustible stuff,
Small crackers and squibs, for a great gala-day,
When we annually fire his Right Reverence off.
'Twould do your heart good, ma'am, then to be by,
When, bursting with gunpowder, 'stead of with bile,
Crack, crack, goes the bishop, while dowagers cry,
"How like the dear man, both in matter and style!"
Should you want a few Peers and M.P.s, to bestow,
As presents to friends, we can recommend these:--
Our nobles are come down to nine-pence, you know,
And we charge but a penny a piece for M.P.s.
Those of _bottle_-corks made take most with the trade,
(At least 'mong such as my _Irish_ writ summons,)
Of old _whiskey_ corks our O'Connells are made,
But those we make Shaws and Lefroys of, are _rum_ 'uns.
So, step in, gentlefolks, etc.
_Da Capo_.
[1] One of the most interesting and curious of all the exhibitions of the
day.
[2] The sign of the Insurance Office in Cheapside.
ANNOUNCEMENT OF A NEW GRAND ACCELERATION COMPANY
FOR THE PROMOTION OF THE SPEED OF LITERATURE.
Loud complaints being made in these quick-reading times,
Of too slack a supply both of prose works and rhymes,
A new Company, formed on the keep-moving plan,
First proposed by the great firm of Catch-'em-who-can,
Beg to say they've now ready, in full wind and speed,
Some fast-going authors, of quite a new breed--
Such as not he who _runs_ but who _gallops_ may read--
And who, if well curried and fed, they've no doubt,
Will beat even Bentley's swift stud out and out.
It is true in these days such a drug is renown,
We've "Immortals" as rife as M.P.s about town;
And not a Blue's rout but can offhand supply
Some invalid bard who's insured "not to die."
Still let England but once try _our_ authors, she'll find
How fast they'll leave even these Immortals behind;
And how truly the toils of Alcides were light,
Compared with _his_ toil who can read all they write.
In fact there's no saying, so gainful the trade,
How fast immortalities now may be made;
Since Helicon never will want an "Undying One,"
As long as the public continues a Buying One;
And the company hope yet to witness the hour.
When, by strongly applying the mare-motive[1] power,
A three-decker novel, midst oceans of praise,
May be written, launched, read and--forgot, in three days!
In addition to all this stupendous celerity,
Which--to the no small relief of posterity--
Pays off at sight the whole debit of fame,
Nor troubles futurity even with a name
(A project that wont as much tickle Tom Tegg as _us_,
Since 'twill rob _him_ of his second-priced Pegasus);
We, the Company--still more to show how immense
Is the power o'er the mind of pounds, shillings, and pence;
And that not even Phoebus himself, in our day,
Could get up a _lay_ without first an _out_-lay--
Beg to add, as our literature soon may compare,
In its quick make and vent, with our Birmingham ware,
And it doesnt at all matter in either of these lines,
How _sham_ is the article, so it but _shines_,--
We keep authors ready, all perched, pen in hand,
To write off, in any given style, at command.
No matter what bard, be he living or dead,
Ask a work from his pen, and 'tis done soon as said:
There being on the establishment six Walter Scotts,
One capital Wordsworth and Southeys in lots;--
Three choice Mrs. Nortons, all singing like syrens,
While most of our pallid young clerks are Lord Byrons.
Then we've ***s and ***s (for whom there's small call),
And ***s and ***s (for whom no call at all).
In short, whosoe'er the last "Lion" may be,
We've a Bottom who'll copy his _roar_[2] to a T,
And so well, that not one of the buyers who've got 'em
Can tell which is lion, and which only Bottom.
N. B.--The company, since they set up in this line,
Have moved their concern and are now at the sign
Of the Muse's Velocipede, _Fleet_ Street, where all
Who wish well to the scheme are invited to call.
[1] "'Tis money makes the mare to go."
[2] "Bottom: Let me play the lion; I will roar you as 'twere any
nightingale."