EPISTLE FROM CAPTAIN ROCK TO LORD LYNDHURST.

DEAR Lyndhurst, you'll pardon my making thus free,

But form is all fudge 'twixt such "comrogues" as

we,

Who, whate'er the smooth views we, in public, may drive at,

Have both the same praiseworthy object, in private,
Namely, never to let the old regions of riot,
Where Rock hath long reign'd, have one instant of
quiet,

And, had this blank fit been allow'd to increase, Might have snored myself down to a Justice of Peace.

Like you, Reformation in Church and in State Is the thing of all things I most cordially hate; If once these cursed Ministers do as they like, All's o'er, my good Lord, with your wig and my pike,

And one may be hung up on t'other, henceforth, Just to show what such Captains and Chancellors were worth.

her

broken;

And hence, I confess, in this island religious,
The breakage of laws-and of heads is prodigious.

And long may it thrive, my Ex-Bigwig, say I,Though, of late, much I fear'd all our fun was gone by;

As, except when some tithe-hunting parson show'd sport,

Some rector-a cool hand at pistols and port,
Who "keeps dry" his powder, but never himself-
One who, leaving his Bible to rust on the shelf,
Sends his pious texts home, in the shape of ball-
cartridges,

66

Shooting his dearly-beloved," like partridges;Except when some hero of this sort turn'd out,

Or, th' Exchequer sent, flaming, its tithe-writs 8 about

A contrivance more neat, I may say, without flattery,

Than e'er yet was thought of for bloodshed and battery;

So neat, that even I might be proud, I allow,
To have hit off so rich a receipt for a row ;-
Except for such rigs turning up, now and then,
I was actually growing the dullest of men;

The Courts having now, with true law erudition,
Put even Rebellion itself "in commission."
As seldom, in this way, I'm any man's debtor,
I'll just pay my shot, and then fold up this letter.
In the mean time, hurrah for the Tories and Rocks
Hurrah for the parsons who fleece well their
flocks!

Hurrah for all mischief in all ranks and spheres,
And, above all, hurrah for that dear House of
Peers!

CAPTAIN ROCK IN LONDON.

LETTER FROM THE CAPTAIN TO TERRY ALT, ESQ. 289

HERE I am, at head-quarters, dear Terry, once

more,

Deep in Tory designs, as I've oft been before:For, bless them! if 'twasn't for this wrong-headed

crew,

You and I, Terry Alt, would scarce know what to

do;

So ready they're always, when dull we are growing, To set our old concert of discord a-going,

face,

To play, in such concert, the true double-base.

I had fear'd this old prop of my realm was beginning

To tire of his course of political sinning,

And, like Mother Cole, when her heyday was past, Meant, by way of a change, to try virtue at last. But I wrong'd the old boy, who as stanchly derides All reform in himself as in most things besides; And, by using two faces through life, all allow, Has acquired face sufficient for any thing now.

In short, he's all right; and, if mankind's old foe, My “Lord Harry" himself—who's the leader, we know,

Of another red-hot Opposition, below

If that "Lord," in his well-known discernment, but spares

Me and Lyndhurst, to look after Ireland's affairs, We shall soon such a region of devilment make it That Old Nick himself for his own may mistake it.

Even already-long life to such Big-wigs, say I, For, as long as they flourish, we Rocks cannot dieHe has served our right riotous cause by a speech Whose perfection of mischief he only could reach ; As it shows off both his and my merits alike,

Both the swell of the wig, and the point of the pike;

The lawyer's cool craft with th' incendiary's fire,
And enlists, in the gravest, most plausible manner,
Seven millions of souls under Rockery's banner!
Oh Terry, my man, let this speech never die;
Through the regions of Rockland, like flame, let it
fly;

Let each syllable dark the Law-Oracle utter'd
By all Tipperary's wild echoes be mutter'd,

Till naught shall be heard, over hill, dale, or flood, But "You're aliens in language, in creed, and in blood;"

While voices, from sweet Connemara afar,

Shall answer, like true Irish echoes, "We are!" And, though false be the cry, and though sense

must abhor it,

Still th' echoes may quote Law authority for it, And naught Lyndhurst cares for my spread of dominion,

So he, in the end, touches cash "for th' opinion."

But I've no time for more, my dear Terry, just now,

Being busy in helping these Lords through their

row:

They're bad hands at mob-work, but, once they begin,

They'll have plenty of practice to break them well in.