"Ah! ha! your Lordship! is it you?
Still slave to Beauty, and beaux yeux?
Well! well! and how's the gout, my Lord?—
My dear Sir Charles! upon my word
L'air de Paris, since last I knew you
Has been Medea's cauldron to you :-
William! my Boy! how fast you grow!
Yours is a light fantastic toe,
Wing'd with the wings of Mercury!
I was a scholar once, you see!

And how's the mare you used to ride?
And who's the Hebe by your side?—
Doctor! I thought I heard you sneeze!
How is my dear Hippocrates?

What have you done for old John Oates,
The gouty merchant with five votes?
What! dead! well! well! no fault of yours!
There is no drug that always cures !
Ah! doctor! I begin to break!
And I'm glad of it, for your sake-"

As thus the spruce M.P. runs on,
Some quiet dame, who dotes upon
His speeches, buckles, and grimace,
Grows very eloquent in praise.
"How can they say Sir Paul is proud?
I'm sure, in all the evening's crowd,
There's not a man that bows so low;
His words come out so soft and slow;
And, when he begg'd me keep my seat,"
He look'd so civil and so sweet."

"Ma'am," says her spouse, in harsher tone, "He only wants to keep his own."

Her Ladyship is in a huff,

And Miss, enrag'd at Ma's rebuff,

Rings the alarm in t'other ear:

"Lord! now, Papa, you're too severe;

Where in the county will you see
Manners so taking and so free?"-
"His manners free? I only know
Our votes have made his letters so!"
"And then he talks with so much ease-
And then he gives such promises!"
"Gives promises? and well he may!
You know they're all he gives away!"

"How folks misrepresent Sir Paul!"
""Tis he misrepresents us all!"
"How very stale! but you'll confess
He has a charming taste in dress,
And uses such delightful scent;
And, when he pays a compliment-
"Eh! and what then, my pretty pet?
What then?-he never pays a debt."

Sir Paul is skill'd in all the tricks
Of Politesse, and Politics;

Long hath he learnt to wear a mien
So still, so open, so serene,

That strangers in those features grave
Would strive in vain to read a knave.

Alas! it is believ'd by all

There is more “ Sir," than "Saint" in Paul;
He knows the value of a place,
Can give a promise with a grace;
Is quite an adept at excuse,
Sees when a vote will be of use;
And, if the Independents flinch,
Can help his Lordship at a pinch.
Acutely doth he read the fate

Of deep intrigues and plans of State;
And if perchance some powder'd Peer
Hath gain'd or lost the Monarch's ear,
Foretels, without a shade of doubt,
The comings-in, and goings-out.
When Placemen of distinguish'd note
Mistake, mislead, misname, misquote;
Confound the Papist and the Turk,
Or murder Sheridan and Burke,
Or make a riddle of the Laws,
Sir Paul grows hoarse in his applause :
And when in words of equal size

Some Oppositionist replies,

And talks of taxes and starvation,
And Catholic Emancipation;
The Knight, in indolent repose,

Looks only to the Ayes and Noes.

Let youth say " Grand!"-Sir Paul says "stuff!"

Let youth take fire!-Sir Paul takes snuff.

Methinks amid' the crowded room

I see one countenance of gloom;

Whence is young Edmund's pain or pique ?
Whence is the paleness of his cheek?
And whence the wrathful eye, that now
Lowers, like Kean's, beneath the brow;
And now again on earth is bent
"Twixt anger and embarrassment?
Is he poetical or sad?

Really-or fashionably-mad?
Are his young spirits colder grown
At Ellen's-or the Muse's frown?
He did not love in other days
To wear the sullens on his face,
When merry sights and sounds were near;
Nor on his unregarding ear

Unheeded thus was wont to fall
The Music of the County Ball.

I pity all whom Fate unites
To vulgar Belles on Gala Nights;
But chiefly him who haply sees
The day-star of his destinies-
The Beauty of his fondest dreaming
Sitting in solitude, and seeming
To lift her dark capricious eye
Beneath its fringe reproachingly.
Alas! my
luckless friend is tied

To the fair Hoyden by his side,
Who opens, without law or rule,
The treasures of the Boarding-school:
And she is prating learnedly

Of logic and of chemistry,

Describing chart and definition
With geographical precision,

Culling her words, as bid by chance,
From England, Italy, or France,
Until, like many a clever dunce,
She murders all the three at once.
Sometimes she mixes by the ounce
Discussions deep on frill and flounce,
Points out the stains, that stick, like burrs,
To ladies' gowns, or characters;
Talks of the fiddles, and the weather,
Of Laura's wreath, and Fannia's feather;
All which obedient Edmund hears

With passive look, and open ears,

And understands about as much
As if the Lady spoke in Dutch;
Until, in indignation high,
She finds the youth makes no reply,
And thinks he's grown as deaf a stock
As Dido,-or Marpesian Rock.⭑

Ellen, the lady of his love,
Is doom'd the like distress to prove,
Chain'd to a Captain of the wars,
Like Venus by the side of Mars.
Hark! Valour talks of conquer'd towns,
See! silent Beauty frets and frowns ;
The man of fights is wondering now
That Girls won't speak when Dandies bow;
And Ellen finds, with much surprise,

That Beaux will speak when Belles despise. Ma'am," says the Captain, "I protest

I come to ye a stranger guest,

Fresh from the dismal dangerous land,
Where men are blinded by the sand,
Where undiscover'd things are hid
In owl-frequented pyramid,

And mummies with their silent looks
Appear like memorandum-books,
Giving a hint of death, for fear
We men should be too happy here.
But if upon my native land

"

Fair ones, as still as mummies stand,
By Jove-I had as lieve be there!"-
(The Lady looks-" I wish you were.")
"I fear I'm very dull to-night"-
(The Lady looks, "you're very right.")
"But if one smile, one cheering ray
(The Lady looks another way.)
"Alas! from some more happy man-
(The Lady stoops and bites her fan,)
"Flattery perhaps is not a crime,"
(The Lady dances out of time,)
"Perhaps e'en now, within your heart,
Cruel! you wish us leagues apart,
And banish me from Beauty's presence!"
The Lady bows in acquiescence,

"Dido-non magis-sermone movetur

Quam si dura silex, aut stet Marpesia cautes,"-VIRG.

With steady brow, and studied face,
As if she thought, in such a case,
A contradiction to her Beau
Neither polite-nor a-propos.

Unawed by scandal or by sneer
Is Reuben Nott the Blunderer here?
What! is he willing to expose
His erring brain to friends and foes?
And doth he venturously dare,
'Midst grinning fop, and spiteful fair,
In spite of all their ancient slips,
To open those unhappy lips?

Poor Reuben! o'er his infant head
Her choicest bounties Nature shed
She gave him talent, humour, sense,
A decent face, and competence,
And then to mar the beauteous plan,
She bade him be an absent man.
Ever offending, ever fretting,
Ever explaining, and forgetting,
He blunders on from day to day,
And drives his nearest friends away.
Do Farces meet with flat damnation?
He's ready with "congratulation."
Are friends in office not quite pure?
He owns
" he hates a sinecure."

Was Major in foreign strife
Not over prodigal of life?-

He talks about "the coward's grave:"

And "who so base as be a slave?"

Is some fair cousin made a wife

In the full autumn of her life?-
He's sure to shock the youthful bride
With "forty years, come Whitsuntide."

He wanders round! I'll act the spy Upon his fatal courtesy,

Which always gives the greatest pain,
Where most it strives to entertain.
"Edward! my boy! an age has past
Methinks, since Reuben saw you last;
How fares the Abbey? and the Rooks?
Your tenants? and your sister's looks?