But short this calm; for, just when he
Had reach'd the alarming age of three,
When royal natures—and, no doubt
Those of all noble beasts-break out,
The Lama, who till then was quiet,
Show'd symptoms of a taste for riot;
And, ripe for mischief, early, late,
Without regard for Church or State,
Made free with whosoe'er came nigh-
Tweak'd the Lord Chancellor by the nose,
Turn'd all the Judges' wigs awry,

And trod on the old General's toes-
Pelted the Bishops with hot buns,

Rode cock-horse on the city maces, And shot, from little devilish guns, Hard peas into his subjects' faces. In short, such wicked pranks he play'd, And grew so mischievous (God bless him!) That his chief Nurse-though with the aid Of an Archbishop-was afraid,

When in these moods, to comb or dress him, And even the persons most inclined

For Kings, through thick and thin, to stickle, Thought him (if they'd but speak their mind Which they did not) an odious pickle.

At length, some patriot lords-a breed
Of animals they have in Thibet,
Extremely rare, and fit, indeed,

For folks like Pidcock to exhibit-
Some patriot lords, seeing the length

To which things went, combined their strength,
And penn'd a manly, plain and free
Remonstrance to the Nursery;

In which, protesting that they yielded,
To none, that ever went before 'em-

In loyalty to him who wielded

The hereditary pap-spoon o'er 'emThat, as for treason, 't was a thing

That made them almost sick to think of

That they and theirs stood by the King, Throughout his measles and his chin-cough,

When others, thinking him consumptive,
Had ratted to the heir Presumptive!-
But still-though much admiring kings
(And chiefly those in leading-strings)-
They saw, with shame and grief of soul,
There was no longer now the wise
And constitutional control

Of birch before their ruler's eyes;
But that, of late, such pranks and tricks,
And freaks occurr'd the whole day long,
As all, but men with bishoprics,

Allow'd, even in a King, were wrong— Wherefore it was they humbly pray'd That Honorable Nursery,

That such reforms be henceforth made,
As all good men desired to see;—
In other words (lest they might seem
Too tedious) as the gentlest scheme
For putting all such pranks to rest,
And in its bud the mischief nipping-
They ventured humbly to suggest

His Majesty should have a whipping 1

When this was read-no Congreve rocket
Discharged into the Gallic trenches,
E'er equall'd the tremendous shock it
Produc'd upon the Nursery Benches.
The Bishops, who, of course had votes,
By right of age and petticoats,
Were first and foremost in the fuss-
แ What, whip a Lama!-suffer birch
To touch his sacred

Deistical!-assailing thus

infamous!

The fundamentals of the Church! No-no-such patriot plans as these (So help them Heaven-and their sees!) They held to be rank blasphemies."

The alarm thus given, by these and other
Grave ladies of the Nursery side,
Spread through the land, till, such a pother
Such party squabbles, far and wide,

Never in history's page had been
Recorded, as were then between
The Whippers and Non-whippers seen.
Till, things arriving at a state

Which gave some fears of revolution,
The patriot lords' advice, though late,
Was put at last in execution.
The Parliament of Thibet met-
The little Lama call'd before it,
Did, then and there, his whipping get,
And (as the Nursery Gazette

Assures us) like a hero bore it.

And though 'mong Thibet Tories, some
Lament that Royal Martyrdom
(Please to observe, the letter D

In this last word 's pronounced like B),
Yet to the example of that Prince

So much is Thibet's land a debtor,

"Tis said her little Lamas since

Have all behaved themselves much better.

ETERNAL LONDON.

AND is there then no earthly place
Where we can rest, in dream Elysian,
Without some cursed, round English face,
Popping up near, to break the vision!

'Mid northern lakes, 'mid southern vines, Unholy cits we're doom'd to meet; Nor highest Alps nor Appenines

Are sacred from Threadneedle-street.

THOMAS MOORE

If up the Simplon's path we wind,
Fancying we leave this world behind,
Such pleasant sounds salute one's ear
As" Baddish news from 'Change, my dear--

"The Funds-(phew, curse this ugly hill !)
Are lowering fast-(what! higher still?)—
And-(zooks, we're mounting up to Heaven!)-
Will soon be down to sixty-seven."

Go where we may-rest where we will,
Eternal London haunts us still.

The trash of Almack's or Fleet-Ditch-
And scarce a pin's head difference which
Mixes, though even to Greece we run,
With every rill from Helicon !
And if this rage for traveling lasts,
If Cockneys of all sets and castes,
Old maidens, aldermen, and squires,
Will leave their puddings and coal fires,
To gape at things in foreign lands
No soul among them understands-
If Blues desert their coteries,
To show off 'mong the Wahabees-
If neither sex nor age controls,

Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids
Young ladies, with pink parasols,

To glide among the Pyramids
Why, then, farewell all hope to find
A spot that's free from London-kind!
Who knows, if to the West we roam,
But we may find some Blue "at home"
Among the Blacks of Carolina-

Or, flying to the eastward, see

Some Mrs. HOPKINS, taking tea

And toast upon the Wall of China.

THOMAS MOORE

ON FACTOTUM NED.

HERE lies Factotum Ned at last:
Long as he breath'd the vital air,
Nothing throughout all Europe pass'd
In which he had n't some small share.

Whoe'er was in, whoe'er was out--
Whatever statesmen did or said-
If not exactly brought about,

Was all, at least, contrived by Ned

With NAP if Russia went to war,

'T was owing, under Providence, To certain hints Ned gave the Czar— (Vide his pamphlet-price six pence).

If France was beat at Waterloo

As all, but Frenchmen, think she was
To Ned, as Wellington well knew,
Was owing half that day's applause.

Then for his news-no envoy's bag

E'er pass'd so many secrets through it— Scarcely a telegraph could wag

Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it.

Such tales he had of foreign plots,

With foreign names one's ear to buzz inFrom Russia chefs and ofs in lots,

From Poland owskis by the dozen.

When GEORGE, alarm'd for England's creed,
Turn'd out the last Whig ministry,
And men ask'd-who advised the deed?
Ned modestly confess'd 't was he.

For though, by some unlucky miss,

He had not downright seen the King, He sent such hints through Viscount This, To Marquis That, as clench'd the thing.

The same it was in science, arts,

The drama, books, MS. and printedKean learn'd from Ned his cleverest parts, And Scott's last work by him was hinted.

Childe Harold in the proofs he read,

And, here and there, infused some soul in 'tNay, Davy's lamp, till seen by Ned,

Had-odd enough-a dangerous hole in 't