And always feel sure that his joy o'er a stew
Portends a clear case of dyspepsia to you.

Read him backwards, like Hebrew - whatever he

wishes,

Or praises, note down as absurd, or pernicious.
Like the folks of a weather-house, shifting about,
When he's out, be an In

Out.

when he's in, be an

Keep him always revers'd in your thoughts, night and day,

Like an Irish barometer turn'd the wrong way: -
If he's up, you may swear that foul weather is nigh;
If he's down, you may look for a bit of blue sky.
Never mind what debaters or journalists say,
Only ask what he thinks, and then think t'other

way.

Does he hate the Small-note Bill? then firmly rely The Small-note Bill's a blessing, though you don't

know why.

Is Brougham his aversion? then Harry's your man. Does he quake at O'Connell? take doubly to Dan. Is he all for the Turks? then, at once, take the whole Russian Empire (Czar, Cossacks, and all) to your soul.

in short, whatsoever he talks, thinks, or is, Be your thoughts, words, and essence the contrast of his.

Nay, as Siamese ladies - at least, the polite ones All paint their teeth black, 'cause the devil has white

If ev'n, by the chances of time or of tide,
Your Tory, for once, should have sense on his side,
Even then stand aloof - for, be sure that Old Nick,
When a Tory talks sensibly, means you some trick.

Such my recipe is - and, in one single verse,
I shall now, in conclusion, its substance rehearse.
Be all that a Brunswicker is not, nor could be,
And then

be.

you'll be all that an honest man should

EPISTLE OF CONDOLENCE,

FROM A SLAVE-LORD, TO A COTTON-LORD.

ALAS! my dear friend, what a state of affairs!
How unjustly we both are despoil'd of our rights!
Not a pound of black flesh shall I leave to my heirs,
Nor must you any more work to death little whites.

Both forc'd to submit to that general controller
Of King, Lords, and cotton mills, Public Opinion,
No more shall you beat with a big billy-roller,
Nor I with the cart-whip assert my dominion.

Whereas, were we suffer'd to do as we please

With our Blacks and our Whites, as of yore we were let,

We might range them alternate, like harpsichord keys,

And between us thump out a good piebald duet.

But this fun is all over; - farewell to the zest
Which Slav'ry now lends to each tea-cup we sip;
Which makes still the cruellest coffee the best,
And that sugar the sweetest which smacks of the
whip.

Farewell, too, the Factory's white picaninnies Small, living machines, which, if flogg'd to their tasks,

Mix so well with their namesakes, the “Billies" and "Jennies,"

That which have got souls in 'em nobody asks;

Little Maids of the Mill, who, themselves but ill-fed, Are oblig'd, 'mong their other benevolent cares, To "keep feeding the scribblers," * and better, 'tis said,

Than old Blackwood or Fraser have ever fed theirs.

All this is now o'er, and so dismal my loss is,

So hard 'tis to part from the smack of the thong, That I mean (from pure love for the old whipping process),

To take to whipt syllabub all my life long.

• One of the operations in cotton mills usually performed by children.

THE GHOST OF MILTIADES.

Ah quoties dubius Scriptis exarsit amator!

OVID.

THE Ghost of Miltiades came at night,
And he stood by the bed of the Benthamite,
And he said, in a voice that thrill'd the frame,
"If ever the sound of Marathon's name
"Hath fir'd thy blood or flush'd thy brow,
"Lover of Liberty, rouse thee now!"

The Benthamite, yawning, left his bed -
Away to the Stock Exchange he sped,
And he found the Scrip of Greece so high,
That it fir'd his blood, it flush'd his eye,
And oh, 't was a sight for the Ghost to see,
For never was Greek more Greek than he!
And still as the premium higher went,
His ecstasy rose so much per cent.
(As we see in a glass, that tells the weather,
The heat and the silver rise together,)
And Liberty sung from the patriot's lip,
While a voice from his pocket whisper'd "Scrip!"
The Ghost of Miltiades came again; -
He smil'd, as the pale moon smiles through rain,
For his soul was glad at that patriot strain;
(And poor, dear ghost - how little he knew
The jobs and the tricks of the Philhellene crew!

"Blessings and thanks!" was all he said, Then, melting away, like a night-dream, fled!

The Benthamite hears - amaz'd that ghosts Could be such fools - and away he posts, A patriot still? Ah no, ah no Goddess of Freedom, thy Scrip is low, And, warm and fond as thy lovers are, Thou triest their passion, when under par. The Benthamite's ardour fast decays, By turns he weeps, and swears, and prays, And wishes the devil had Crescent and Cross, Ere he had been forc'd to sell at a loss. They quote him the Stock of various nations, But, spite of his classic associations, Lord, how he loathes the Greek quotations! "Who'll buy my Scrip? Who'll buy my Scrip? Is now the theme of the patriot's lip, As he runs to tell how hard his lot is To Messrs. Orlando and Luriottis, And says, "Oh Greece, for Liberty's sake, "Do buy my Scrip, and I vow to break "Those dark, unholy bonds of thine "If you'll only consent to buy up mine!" The Ghost of Miltiades came once more; His brow, like the night, was lowering o'er, And he said, with a look that flash'd dismay, "Of Liberty's foes the worst are they, "Who turn to a trade her cause divine, "And gamble for gold on Freedom's shrine!"