To Bourke's Statue

"O wad some pow'r the giftie gie us, To see oursels as others see us." Alumni of the South: I fain would sing The pompous asses and their blustering Whose acts obey the vice versa law Reflecting lustre from mere men of straw

Where deepest jet, the purest pearl, outvies Nature still constant in anomalies And "Honest man, God's noblest work," a name Unknown in annals of this House of Fame— More lofty verse for such were penned in vaen Each pick his portrait in pure doggrel strain.— Let stern reality my picture fill Forego the lovely for the literal My metre as my tone play as I please With varied tints, as Autumn paints the trees.— Let me invoke, dread Nemesis, thy aid Thy coin flow freely where the debt is paid Oh! may this nobbler bright my muse inspire And guide my goose quill thro' thy maze,—Satire,— First on the Stage, drag am'rous Charley forth Of stolid countenance in mirth or wrath, Whose blue bagged jowl proclaims his boasted tree, The Dead sea fruit of bastard ancestry;— Clever to "tip the silk" give double thong Or chalk out cherubs a là Mittagong—— This pilot, England's choice, to guide the helm Corrupt a people and confound a realm, Where Nature's gifts were all that man could have, Each stream Pactolus, Commerce on the wave, Wise were such choice, did wine and wassail bring The attributes pertaining to a King; Wise were the choice, did ignorance decree Weal, worth, and blessing to posterity; Wise is the choice, blind mortals slow to know, Where foulest sewer, the richest crop must grow; Virtue and Justice prove etceteras here Where vice is rampant, Wisdom sheds a tear.— Unhappy Land! where every post is sold Where wives work wonders, woman versus gold, Where lust and passion find an easy prey, For mothers pander for a mouster's pay; Husbands devour the bread that beauty buys,— Oh! drop the veil o'er past atrocities— As Fouché spoke of some voluptuous halls Those deeds, re-echo our vice-regal halls As o'er Pompeian stews 'neath sign of brass Be blazoned here ("hic habet felicitas")— Oh look around, where this mis-govern'd land Shews, labor lost, engraved on every hand, Should any pile rear loftier roof on high There spilt the blood of convict dynasty— Now Farmers-General vegetate at ease, The driv'ling dotards but increase their fees, Lessen the lustre of Great Britain's name, While virtue blushes, deepest blush of shame; The land were happy with no farther harm, Nor envy we the ordure of their farm——. Glorious achievement of two lustrums peace Raised six score ducks and half a hundred geese, Well pampered ease its golden eggs may hoard Geese throng around, as well as on the board— If in tradition there be truth at all Here's the right stuff to save the Capitol Nor our fierce Yeomen and brave Vulunteers Anticipate a grateful nations tears, Unborn the Rooshuns Sydney rifles kill And troopers charged but in their tailor's bill Oh blazes? 'twere a goodly sight to see The town turn out its troops of Cavalry All daring riders on their lamp-post steeds Both man and horse unique in divers breeds, The moustache movement proves the only one The gallant Yeomanry has ever done——— When Rooshans come; shall follow Polar bears The shaggy races will descend in pairs And make reprisals on some stormy day On Perouse monument, in Botany Bay— Well did Macdonald (ere he cut) foresee, On that dread day a bloodless victory, The parole "sauve qui peut" proclaims their fate, The troopers rally round the turnpike gate; The pikeman opens, (tipped with ample pay), And running Riflemen point out the way.

Pass Vizier Deass who with aspect mild Could charm a servant or beguile a child, Low cunning was your forte; yea, 't is confest, Experience colonial forged you best, Amid the sneaks who pandered to the chief To court a courtesan or cloak a thief— All selfish interest thine,—I've yet to know What you have done without quid pro quo? From earliest times when gifts of early purl Poured on each mistress in delightful whirl, To when the more sedate and crafty Turk Sacked his Zenana to embrace a Bourke— For such as thou I have no time to spare You've left the land, and where, none know nor care Stop where you are, 'twill be Australia's gain Your pension pilfer, don't come back again.—

What modern Œdipus the riddle solves That riddle on whose con the weight devolves, To raise or lower the steelyard of the state To ink to Zero or to raise it Great:— Cold sweats 'tis said reduced him two stone less Since Cowper's motion plunged him in a mess— Had he but kept to cutlets and small beer With tongue fast fettered, he had nought to fear But mad ambition and the greed for gain Have proved at once his antidote and bane— He too be pensioned for his work and worth, Of such live stock may Sydney have a dearth— A wondrous digit is that number nine; In mystic circle or the magic line Others than Wizard of the North divine That 6 inverted still is number nine; But when applied to bonded eau de vie A light clears up a seeming mystery, 'Tis true yet strange that wonders never cease From herbe of Holloway to Bruin's grease The simples' virtue and the pure supply Like statesman Riddle, turn out "all my eye," And "Betty Martin" Martin great in song— Who solved this riddle?—Profits Dan and Long.

The cork is drawn the Treasurer's bottled lore Now pours in bumpers from his cellar'd store Old classic cribs are conjured from the dust But countless folios won't remove the rust, Spell, Spout, and splutter for your hireling clan Your peroration ends where you began——

Haste dummy Stirling quick your harness doff Ere upstart Denison should lug it off (But little wisdom Downing-street I fear Translates this quondum Gaoler-General here No rivets here, no iron to rust the soul Despite of despot or his chains control)—— Erst rummy Lord of Stills, Church, Infant lands Why trust your footing on these vile quicksands Where weight of M. C. only sinks you deep In mire you wade, but have not strength to leap? Go; learn the fable of the Bull and Frog Ye worthy worshippers of Guildhall Gog

Alas! unlike the worthy plodding soul, Who chased, in harness down the fleeting gaol,— As eager youth pursued the Iris bound, The more he searched, more distant it was found, Lithgow; full well performed your thankless part Your sole reward, a sound and honest heart, That gladsome conscience, deeds not words impart,— Let seasons roll; when history begin And rumour trumpets every heinous sin When all embezzlement is blazon'd broad Your firm integrity shall fame record; When bribes were barbed and virtuous, vilest deeds A rara avis midst a herd of thieves—— May happy age succeed unblemished youth, And Fortune's favors once repay the truth.——

See him of aspect dire and haughty gait As though himself were a triumvirate, Who dreams of honors, forges Bomerang screws And wakes in anger Camõens lofty muse Who damns the language that cooked such rhyme (To spoil the Lusiad were a heinous crime:) Your childish choler but provokes a sneer, And makes you small, the very smallest beer, With Sisyphic attempts Fame's temple try No niche is there for eccentricity——— High roads Colossus once was yours the power To move each bullock team as coach and four. Why did you fail, when yours the ironed man To make the "high hills hop" as hop'd "Bashan?" Go grave your maps, in survey you succeed Where praise is worthy, let me grant the meed, Thousands of men and money shout for land But here as elsewhere work is at a stand.—

Let Customs Chief sedately take his place, Midst waning moon-calves shew one gibbous face, 'Tis true no Pylian's mantle did descend To guide his eloquence, his peers defend, But cast amid this heterogeneous race, A man midst Chimpanzees—quite out of place— He does his work sans peur et sans reproche And dont embezzle to display a coach.—

What umbrella major now appears And takes his seat quite overcome by fears? What pale timidity sits on his brow As though his heart anticipates a row Clever to plead for place, or lick a plate To cough in Council, or to clean a grate, From lowest grade this Magnate's riz so high He quite forgets his proud antiquity.— Tried every post he now the master rules And misdirects the foolery of fools—— Hoard up your money while 'tis easy earned No distant day, the tables must be turned.—

See Pinchgut member fumble at the door In case his comates aint gone in before A precious mull he made the other day To vote by accident the other way,—— How ludicrous the nod, the beck, and wink Come here, "no there," "'tis right fornent, I think;" Belay at Bellamy’s, imbibe the cheer, The only sort you’ll ere call forth I fear; Your flunkey stepson hover on your wake, And flush your intellect with ale and cake; Port Curtis Barataria missed your rule And Sancho Panza mounts again his mule—

Oh “cloud Capt.” Brownne, oh, passim H.H.B. What Demon tempted me to scribble thee? Oh! whipper-in at tail of every hound Where’er the carcase, you are surely found,— Ships mate yourself, a mate you found at sea, That one bright gleam reveals thy history, Proclaims the interest vested in the land Your step-sire’s mantle must on you descend— Dead Reck’ning proves the acme of your skill While living Immigrants your pockets fill,— Why Sydneyites so long can harbor thee Looms in my mind a sorry mystery.——

Supreme Attorney, oracle of law I fain a veil would o’er your portrait draw Those shrivelled features, indices of brain Pronounce, that Bigotry will prove your bane, The Jesuits cunning dictates every move And Roman tramples on the Sydney Cove—— Great J.P. architect, be warned, beware, Who live by logic, need to split a hair Your Magistrates, the benches well adorn Curs, caitiffs, cuifs, a byeword and a scorn.— ’Tis true some read, some write, or drink or swear All barter justice, where all tip is fair The master grinds the man—’tis snob prevails E’en Jilks would fail to regalate the scales.— Homage to beauty and to talent’s due From Irish Judges and Attorney’s too, Whether on stage or at drop scene they act More pride of place were meet (a stubborn fact) Than panegyric pen at any price, Or keep a hostile for a cantatrice.—— Pronounced just as you please, but it will rhyme In Sydney dialect and ding-dong chime.—— For shame! for shame! good Cuthills name refuse And brand “The Foundlings” the itinerant muse

Euphonious is the name of Tommy B. Euphonious his colonial history Chief Justice and Chief Miller thick as thieves Antithesis of our antipodes.—

Solicitor “ethereal mildness come,” ’Tis sweet from out the d——d to rescue some, Your foibles are weak man’s, ’t were painful praise To hold you honest in these golden days, When honesty’s reward is Fortune’s frown, So trite the fact it has a proverb grown, ’Tis strategy, not strength, that lands the trout, All cut, like Poleaxe but—they’re not found out. You’re rather prosy, full stop, and hum drum, A trifle that besides your comrade’s mum, Ryan’s happy answer, written on your heart, Shows repartee may sometimes good impart, Your tongue be tempered, nor o’eract in farce, He heaves no stones, whose house is built of glass—

So now I’ve handled all the hireling hacks, (Fine steel heeds not the harness on their backs) I’ll wipe the blade o’er every peltry loon And speak to Speaker in his proper tune—— Look where he sits ensconced in ample chair, A jackal silent in a lion’s lair—— ’Tis by the gross that nature breeds such things, Insects of even that have cast their wings, All, all alike, without a plume to soar, But armed with weapons, sharp to sink them lower, Tho’ versed in all, being no detective spy, Some secrets I will spare publicity, “Sat me lusisti,” in some evil hour Creature of fortune; you, may well feel her power— Cyclopian Goneworth, Sydney’s godlike man Who chaos banished, when her day began, You have have had yours—as every dog enjoys, Till hunger’s sated and the carrion cloys— I’ll not be personal, nor say one word Of fiction, no, nor of the facts I’ve heard— Posterity’s hall judge your vaunted deeds Told oft and hopeless as are penance beads, The “bloody head,” as Darling left the shore, Can’t smear your conscience, ’twas but bellock’s gore, Revenge were cowardly that woman scares, But craft, not courage, is the game of bears, Oh! changeling soul, oh selfish renegade, You’d sell your country and yourelf degrade— Eschew the past, vice-regal vices ape Thersites, crooked in thy ways as shape— Fair Norfolk Isle, the climate of thy birth For ever chain thee to thy native hearth— Look on this picture “useless Highland boors,” See, now the gillies urge him o’er the moors, The wornout debauchee, now knows their worth Did they know his he’d get a pleasant berth, “Wine bibber,” look, lest you o’erlesp the goal, “Thou dog in forehead, but a hart in soul”

Show, noisy charlatan, thy “gig lamp” face, Thy hearers titillate with low grimace While Sawney saws and ribald jests you try, Each joke, a type of Scotch vulgarity, As bad’s the best—I grant you first in nouse Most learned, Rev. Doctor in the House To pec or speculate with you the same, Both rant and banter seem a winning game.

In all the phases of your past career, No hypocrite or Prodigal appear—— Consummate impudence forbade the one, And downright meanness, would the other shun.

Come Camel of the wharf, spit forth your spleen, Swear black is white, avow that white is green, Say gold’s not gold, but metal’s base alloy Pert opposition of an illtrained boy, The twits and twaddle of a school debate, Shine bright in archives of your infant state,— Augæan’s stables need Herculean broom Both thews and sinews of a stalwart groom— Go sell your slops, sand-sugar in your store, Nor heed the breakers that in distance roar, Which shall o’er-whelm Gomorrha in a tide Unstemmed by Canute; ’tis in vain you tried, Receding waters sweep the filthied shore And leave the present but a tale of yore.—

Mark well that fussy pursy starch frilled breast, That frets and fumes,—a working tub of yeast To rise itself, or sour the pauper’s bread Worse luck,—or lead had ballasted its head.—

What come again to squirt at random range Its foul saliva,—badinage on change, How coarse vulgarity proclaims its caste The parvenu—still striving to be fast— ’Tis S, A, D, sad brand to squatter’s known, Whom oft it pilfered, and thro’ whom ’tis grown, The shameless sham, the cautious coward cur, That blasts the land as doth the Bathurst burr— ’Twas Chilian horse imports the noxious weed, The fates forbid ass propagate its breed, The patriot Pict who sowed the thistle down Compared with this, were Curtius in renown.— In state palaver, scalpless Doctor’s join, Prone to prescribe their quack “Great Medicine Of brandy pawnee tribe these warriors bold To bleed, shave, chatter as their craft of old— Oh! shade of Grattan can thy wraith now see The tricks of namesakes in posterity? A Douglass to the rescue—echo calls, Oh “walls have ears”—not so the Council halls— Your idol, vulgar Goneworth, squints not there Greek fire falls feebly on the classic chair, Your finger in the pie on every side Unless its served at feast of Barmicide, Euphonious language loves Hibernian lung And blandest blarney proves Milesian tongue Bounce and bombast will elbow in a place, Or you’re not scion of your father’s race— A pile, you pocket from Macquarie’s grant That Bill of Billy’s realized the plant— The bone digested, loud the lurchers bark, And town uncanny, springs up Douglas Park As Santa Fé before Boabdil’s walle, So rise the outlines of ancestral Halls, Sure Paddy’s beat beneath Australian sky Trace the patrician from posperity.—

What ass is this? Assassin’s near the mark That aims his venom’d arrow in the dark?

(The Cape of Hope relates an oft told tale The Table mount still breathes the warriors wail— No Menelaus there avenge her charms And Holy men discard recourse to arms, A second flame shall fulminate from Jove, And vet’ran gunner lights the match of love, Strange is the story, strange indeed if true, May “Caller herrin” be rehearsed anew)— You’d drag a railway over pet Church-hill, You phantom Hudson all devoid of skill “Proud science never taught your soul to stray” Farther than Camden and its milky way,— Black is the heart beneath that pallid skin, Malevolence wrinkles in a fiendish grin, False to your friend, a friend you’ll never have, Your life a lie—a lie will point your grave; Who would confide in you must hope in sin, For Satan hovers where your steps have been.— Of all that’s grovelling, dirty, low or bad You stand the vilest—what I say, I’ve said—— Lisp not your lies aloud, nor cock sure crow Lest horsewhip second, what my words avow Foul daub avaunt, false colour fling afar Nor devil blast you blacker than you are.—

Come creole Darewell, make your game I pray, Vote stakes too low!—we’ll dash at higher play— No Constitution monger buy your vote ’Twould spoil the speech that mem’ry got by rote Speak to the point and be not so verbose, To be too stiff’s as bad as too jocose Some merit in a way to you pertains,— ’Tis no great matter—you can count your grains— In Darewell’s chambers met a motley group With necks outstretched like geese enclosed in coop, Gasping to gobble up the words that fell (Like pearls ’mid swine) from astute Ante-Te,ll—— As in this wondrous land all works contraire The lazy loungers, that had mustered there, Startle; as eloquence from Bayley burst,— “We are hero to canonize our Charles the First Great Charles the Martyr to a golden pile Who suffered;—but from overflow of bile,— Who if he did no good did no great harm A bell all powerless to create alarm;— Where is the mob not even Fairfax here Nor yet his wife? no; “too much wit” I fear;— Each testimonial now the last outvies Following the current course of courtesies,— For length of residence of kin or kith Take for one instance that of Throsby Smith Whose name melodious has so famous grown That the Lake songsters warble it alone.”——

The lazy constables the vellum bear And force in terror each hind’s signature,— The clans are roused; forth goes the burning brand Loud swells the Mort note o’er Australia’s strand Far o’er the waves reverberates the horn, For the last time; a going, going, gone.——

What Martin this that chirps about the Hall For ever piping with new note for all?— Stare stupid M. C.’s. at research so dry, And which alone wont shine in orat’ry— That flippant Police Court style just cast aside And manliness will many a defect hide—— Demosthenes selects some seamew shore And would outroar the breakers in their roar While pebble mouthed he thus his stammer cures Like like begets ’t will do the same for yours Tyro as yet—you’ll play the Stateman’s game Perchance may occupy a niche in fame,— Integrity of purpose, strength of mind, Will leave your lubber compeers far behind——

Hail native Nichalls gift with common sense Of vig’rous mind and sober diligence, Of various talent, fit for better cause Than pettifogging in our antique laws— As you have felt the kindly aid of Jews Plead for their Rabbi nor the tin refuse, In every skirmish; in the van you stood Your acts intended for your country’s good.—

Hit Murray hard, thou man of solemn mood Of lengthened visage and of rectitude Whose deep drawn sighs (unlike thy beard) have grown To echo Werter’s sorrows, with thine own— What though you tire the nobblerising throng With fragments dragging their slow length along, For lack of eloquence, shall worth atone, Your mein is manly and your mind your own.—

Bear with me Rufus, I would tribute pay Ere yet I terminate my transient lay, To noble candour, honesty of heart, One framed to exercise a beiter part— Oh know thyself—timidly eschew, What virtue prompts dont hesitate to do Avoid cabals, the cliques of vicious clime Await the advent of a better time, With genius bonnd, and manhood gone to grass If vice don’t prosper, write me down an ass.—

Come generous Bland the good, the kind, the friend, In whom a host of genuine virtues blend How loud erst while thy voice in stern debate Controlled the Council or opposed tho State, Why hast thou slumbered? to when Australia’s prow Moored to the shore confronts thy frosty pow While tim’rous pilot dreads to launch the boat Which craven crimped crew could not set afloat— What crotchet now inflames your vivid brain? Steam o’er the calm and face the breeze again Heed not the chilliness of nobs grown cold Time may destroy, but cannot make you old.

Up puppet vender, play the marionette Your mighty passions, puff in constant fret At silly trifles, Gabo and its oil May they in turgid indignation boil——— Oi polloi crawlers claim their hideous God A grateful “Empire” breathes but at his nod, Vulgarity of person, action, soul, Proves him not ablest, that may reach the goal— As clever to misquote: when scant of news Fill filthy columns from the Sydney stews— Should aught original here find a place It would the vilest venal pen disgrace——

The Kempian torso! future students hail With anxious query, had the thing a tail? A future Owen striking at the root, Shall mend the monster, reconstruct the brute, And prove the best of Megatherium brood Of waddling habits, and waste paper food, Of wondrous action, startled seal at bay Legs! thy asymptotes,—Hyperbola!!! (Which as the erudite M. C.’s don’t know Ever approach tho’ meeting proves no go)—— All know the tale of the Kilkenny cats Whose wars intestine spare the breed of rats For, as poor pussy at its neighbour rails Both disappear, and lo! a pair of tails— So shall Parkesennery from intestine flights Leave to post-science but his co-prolites.—

Is this an Atheist thet my fancy drew Or Moslem, Parsee, Pariah, or Jew? Prophetic typical of your renown Is that skew bridge that lately tumbled down Tho keystone speech so archly done by you That it might finish as commenced askew—— With such fatality; predestined work In future hail it as the Brig ’o Turk—— Who brags of Cockney trips to Palestine A feat as simple as ascend the Rhine, Munchausen fires his shots in far Darfur “Hic niger est”—too sceptical far Moor.—

Come peerless parson, to my lesson lest ’Cute cyclone circler, sage, geologist——— The North Shore witlings may behold ’tis true A Lyell or a Murchison in you Or, in St. Leonard’s Sunday fervour feel In pulpit eloquence, you beat McNeil When Moses struck the rock with rod of old Water gushed forth—yours, yields us virgin gold. While savans differ as to divers sorts, Believe that rock, the patronyme of quartz——— More versatile than Moses in your way Break rocks, commandments, or prescribe to pray. Do! churlish churchman double U.B.C. Don’t strive to prove the World’s Directory Newton, self-styled a child upon the shore Collecting pebbles; you are far before——— Map unknown spheres, control the Comet’s course And brand the winged Pegasus your horse———

Bleak house blears blindly o’er Eliza’s Bay Chill as the owner’s hospitality No music there save weeping willows sigh, And wavelets ripple murm’ring lullaby, Chance pic nic pilgrim, seeking scallop shell Draws down in dudgeon this high Admiral. “Flotsom and jetsom on these shores are mine, Hark to my deep mouthed bloodhounds sanguine whine”— Too selfish, greedy, puffy, and effete For Council squabbles or a world’s debate This Hermit next appears upon my list, Oh, tiresome twaddle of the naturalist Or Natural—for aught that we can know As where there’s talent, it must surely show. Why, slavish parasites make such a fuss ’Bout pseudo garden of Alcinous?——— Self only dwells in this Cimmerian Bay. Where, (if ’tis true what meddling tabbies say) This Polyphemus doth with Polly play, And snakes and adders usher in the day. What Cerberus bloodhounds closely guard the gates Where solitary gourmand vegetates, Prates of past turtle steaks and “codger” whales Such spicy food and racy wit prevails, And as the Persian pig of former day Boasts all he has eaten he can take away— Could he but see himself as others do His consequence would drop a peg or two——— Christendom’s eighth Champion;—’tis to you This ladies album epigram is due Which Barkers flunkey picked up at your gate, And gave Miss ———; for a perquisite— “Not steeped in gore Religion’s flag, when woman was the cause Of deadly feud, of nations fall, of devastating wars Now Superstition drains the blood—not woman’s stolen kiss Still beauty lurks in maiden’s smile, yet all that’s wrong's a miss.” Ho, Cavalier servente to the dame, Of feather flirting, and Shakspearian fame, Whose little deaf uxorious husband whines, As passing years increase the antler’s tynes——— Here are rehearsed the joys of senile bliss, Conned from the mysteries of Eleusis And Lupercalia, here the game outvies Of Dives doating o’er love’s tragedies——— ’T were well, that at that memorable play The dark avengers were so far away, Or else that ugly scull were bare to-day As the poor Islander’s, (Ben Boyd’s they say) Museums may reject the filthy lot I’ll mount the scull a novel * * What matter? filled; more fertile than its brains ’T will scatter plenty, not hoard up its gains— Among the rubbish, for the Paris show, See here one thing from which some blessings flow Shown with marsupial Australian fleas; View Mammon’s scull, from the antipodes———

Realm vies with realm in fashion and haut ton The modern Cyclop strives with Solomon—— In solemn silence, the Jew’s temple rose, As was commanded, and tradition shows Our commerce temples cause a world’s uproar, And steam-struck anvils ring from shore to shore. Now lightning wafts the message round the World, And man o’er sea o’er land by steam is whirled While the sun paints with undissembling ray Progressive labor of each toilsome day—— From Taprobane, gems and ivory wend, And Tarshish still her sunny gifts shall send; While Worlds unknown transmit the precious ore, In masses Ophir never dreamt of yore;——— But apes are shipped from classic Sydney Cove, As supercargoes of its treasure trove; Samples from Goshen to enlighten France, Baboonsin brains as well as countenance—— Full many a Hiram’s master mason there A Tubal Cain prove each artificer, Boaz and Jachin rise on vapours breath And domes ascend with magic shibboleth——

Start not star gazer P. P. K. RN. We ne’er can contemplate your like again In Logs, proportionals, in you, are seen Both him of Merchiston, and Maskelyne,— So say the Dons,—and I am over quick To grant full measure to a Lunatic, For transits, fluxions, calculus combin’d Evince an intellect of no common kind, Of varied craft, kaleidoscopic soul Fix Astral Systems, point the Astral Pole The motto of marines, “by land or sea” In truth pertains as equally to thee; Lords of the Isles the same;—’tis no strange thing For are not you of Southern Isles, the King? But not the monarch of your survey’d coast Or, you ’ld ne’er wander now a hapless Ghost, Of what men took you for,—perchance preserv’d That blind Observatory where nought’s observ’d Where double lunars a la thumb and nose Salute the traveller who thither goes, To offer smoke at Cloacinas shrine Or other purposes Stubbs can devine——— Says Watts, all knowledge no man can acquire But you have leisure, and you are for hire,— Resolve the nebulæ, fate o’er you flung Your eye not yet as palsied as your tongue. No, naught is new in this siderial sky Phenomenon in our Astronomy!!— What hardships Halley dared for science sake, And younger Herschell—follow in his wake.——— Apt cases multiply (go search the schools) Of genius jaded to unlighten fools Alas you’ve listed in the Club-fool-alique Of which worn subject I am sorely sick If not dead-locked the tablets of your brain No need to take your altitude again.———

Of would-be cognoseenti there is one (I bide my time, at present partly dumb,) Who quite devoid of talent, feeling, sense, Assumes a borrowed, jackdaw consequence A semi-layman churchman, he would ape, And tire his clients as he tied his tape— So while the time-book scores a double fee His victim’s tortures with strange poetry, In dogg’rel couplets;—vile tractarian stuff Ill patient’s stomach belches, quantum suff, Cogs from old tomes, and dishes up a treat From musty shelves and artistes obsolete.———

Unrivalled poetaster ’tis but meet, You strive with H H, Sydney’s Laureate, Equal in poesy or ideal mind Another Beaumont would a Fletcher find—— Lie in thy throat, malicious ugly knave Thy tongue be blistered, ere it foul the brave, Nor privilege of age, that coward cry Slur o’er thy slanders with impunity. Free as my will, my power, ere this had bled, The wretch who dared calumniate the dead———

The cannon thunders, here be known to all, Fall of Ballaarat and Sebastopol Tho twofold tale tho bulletins unfold, And Nickel here invades tho Land of Gold—— While England’s Armies wade in blood of foes, They spill her own at the Antipodes——— This ruthless sortie terror caused, ’tis plain; And Glencoe’s massacre’s rehearsed again——— Successful skirmish on La Plata’s Bank Cannot bring brains as easily as rank, Victoria’s Viceroy’s brains it seems are bare As the strange strategy that’s fostered there, May this poor policy not prove our loss, Nor proud St. George sink ’neath the Starry cross—

Of various changes men must undergo See Crœsus’ now, but paupers while ago Ask not, how they amassed their mighty wealth, Not easy solved, nor clean the bill of health, Full many a Dives on the bleak North Shore Has raised his mansion and his ample store That Blocksome couple (sunk the lodging house) Now boasts Murœenæ Stragbourg pies and grouse, And hang their tiny son in golden chains Each link more weighty than the trio’s brains——

I’ve placed the donkeys—Devil take the ruck— If they’re self satisfied, the more the luck Those not yet posted, maybe bide their time For harsher stricture in more pungent rhyme—— As for the Macs, be they Mac-adamised As old in fancy as their hills so prized, Beauty as lavish in their mind as form Of equal temper, or in calm or storm, Doomed for an age to gulp sour Camden wine To gnaw the juiceless fibrine of lean kine, From arid food, aridity of brain Proves here predominant the curse of Cain— Acid and broaxy have their pockets lined While Times and progress are left far behind, To ration rum they owe their happiest years And fleece but followed on their grandsire’s shears Obeyed the proverb “made house book and child” I could descant, my muse cries “Draw it mild”——

The nondescripts the heterogeneous fry The fabled Bunyips man can’t classify—— Were I to castigate each Justice hod, I’d need the aid of Usher of black rod—— Misnomer Equity, Insolvents bleed For stale statistics I refer to Reid,—— (Him of long stature and more lengthy head As good at politics as cards’ its said If you’d cull gleanings from his tale of tubs Peer in at Perriers, reigning kings of clubs, Polemics or picquet which ere he try ’Tis five to four he gains the victory.) Who could a tale unfold of pounds and pence Of nepotism, past and present tense——— The Council prints the trash for ‘Privy’ sake That all, who run, may read, no “Reeds mistake”—— Or search for authors thro’ the learned clan Refer with pride to plodding Brallaghan Whose skill made index for the old Gazettes (I wish he’d tell us those who paid their debts) Australia’s volume in appropriate calf Upset all gravity; as dustman’s laugh The Crystal Palace shook; Britannia gains, And copper medal pays him for his pains——

We’ve demi some flunkey Monday’s book Well known as Friday on the route he took For ever acting the man Friday’s part, To Crusoe Charlie, or in Deass cart—— Whole tiresome pages with the burthen team Of what he is, and what he might have been, Warms o’er his “Punch,” to that delightfull state When cozy gossips can deliberate, Espies a “gent” in Stockmans “tidy feet” Flea cracker, bug destroyer to the suite——

My coachman, footman, valet, and my groom, My butcher, baker, farrier, each of whom Courts his fair sweetheart in the maiden’s room,—— My Surgeon, daily asks “my wife” what ails her Monopolized each trade but undertaker—— Shall he thus daub each “pretty wife,” indeed Whom hospitality presents a feed?—— Beware how rinkled rakes rakes approach your gate Your maids and daughters to enumerate, (What matters marriage? in this land ’tis known The married rake walks o’er the course alone) To glean a lying yarn from serving men To pilfer halfpence with their paltry pen, Which, but proclaims the want of whip at schoul Misquotes from Syntax—votes their host a fool— Will any tell, cui bono, is the grade, Of Majors General, Majors of Brigade, Of tottering staff whose peaceful pockets fill, Where all are officers and soldiers nil, Whose only care’s sufficiency of “ale,” And strive to prove their wives marsupial——— From Horse Guards patronage our shores defend’ We’ll pay the Forces; but old crones forefend.

Pray who is “Eldershaw,” where flown, where came

For ‘Yahoos loiter o’er her burnt demesne;—— If not a horse; one thing is clear as glass

These dry rot leaves are leavings of an Ass Mid muffs like these Sam Raymond has a chance, Long latent genius shall at last advance, Burst from the shadows where it lay entranced Like angel visits ’t will be more enhanced— Dubious and dusty dormant MSS, Escaped the mangle for the printing press, If I don’t err, old bricks, said diary know In Eastcheap, Poultry, Paternoster-row Save Bannister or Baron Field ’tis clear Brought o’er the rubbish just to shoot it here—— In bygone days, great nunquam dormiens “Bell” Fired off this squib, which hit extremely well As point blank range suits now as well then, God save the mark, why let it off again “The Gazette of St. Francisco offers dollars thousands five For the head of Peter Raymond who it seems is ell alive Happy, happy San Francisco, better far than Sydney town Where you cannot find a Raymond with a head worth half-a-crown In which opinion I can’t quite concur No, wisest mortals are least apt to err Yet, for that head, should my desires incline In bran new tile, I’d offer four-and-nine.—

Mid such a motley mass of parvenus, The scourges puzzled where the last lash to use— Legion, the name of this besotted race May Charon waft each to his proper place,— The learned Magnates of the City Bench Who live on crime, in atmosphere of stench As Dowlan Leary—shall I call the main? By Jove ’tis Nick—don’t envy them their gain. The dirtiest office finds a ready mob And nightman’s wages,’ fall to nightman’s job, Poor Dowlan’s honest (rather apt to pry) Can’t say the same of his fraternity From childhood plodded on till now, to cry I’m paid for work and not ability That midday meal vexated health requires It is my dinner, and saves kitchen fires. The sword of Gideon flames in wild career The great Dundas Tactician Volunteer The gawky Scot and Diggins Chronicler. If such recruits as this, stiff Brown, can drill, He well deserves a testimonial Of solid gold:—not gilding of the pen If louts, like these, ere move like gentlemen—.

The Hero see of Constitution Hill Whose head grows lighter as his pockets fill, (Bold lucky private who secured the boy An idiot playing with unloaded toy)—— A grateful sovereign raised him from the ranks Place and promotion testify her thanks See now he stalks with consequential force, Learned too to ride!——a beggar on a horse, Reads, writes, and speaks with equal ease and grace King or Kings’ minion’s cannot change his face.—— Here schroffs and sheriffs follow on the scent From mongrel cur, to hound of high descent Old gossips prate how one Alexis loved How Ganymede a Corydon had proved.—— See Limerick Chronicle for purest blood Of ketch providers downward from the flood, Linked to the hectic hoydens that adorn The ill stocked Hareems of our Golden Horn—— ’Tis here they sell the whitewashed milk In ample measure a lá Jilk No cove can here the landlord bilk Of Garryowen na gloria———

Here slopman Argrave lays down faultless law Where gold must be, where nature made a flaw, With “strata dipping upwards," and such like With “quartz conglomerate,” and “downwards strike” With “axis clinical” and “modern schist” He petrifies the wide mouthed mob who list—— Midst combat seeking knights of present day, Not dub him one?—he’d shine as well as they; With beggar’s box as full as it can hold He’ll give a tournament on “Clotte of Gold”—— On such ignoble heels to buckle spurs Were jest at chivalry, a joust for curs, Whose deadly vengeance, but to snarl and bite Since Courts and cowards put an end to fight.— Here Knights abound, our Baronet has gone And one live Lord roams through the land alone, An isolated instance o’er the main, A genuine Peer, a peerless gentleman————

Commissioners throng of high and low degree Of Courts, of Land, of Sandhills and Coogee,—— And last and least that gold bedizened Crew All useless ciphers; pity ’tis ’tis true As bare of brains as headless turkey cock That stills struts on, with head left on the block Which rare conceit’s from Sterne’s not Sale’s Koran I cannot find it, but perhaps you can.—— See this dull lout, that lengthy gawky boy, Just cast their quills, and bought a sharper toy,— Not long endured this idle bullying clique Who grind the digger, for the fee, they keep, Who, while he toils in sun (oft vain his task), Loll in their tents or pierce the forfeit cask—— Much could I tell to prove the tribe’s disgrace But spare my strictures for another place———

The City Coms. have barely yet had time To flush the sewers or calculate the fine So versatile in talent are the three The hydraheads of this directory—— Generous to wink at City rates unpaid Or smirk approval of a fire brigade See universal genius of a Ray, Isaiah, can paraphrase, or pave the way While steady Darewell holds the proper cue So miss the stroke or make it, entre nous, And Lordly Elliott holds his nose so high, You’d think his function was ol-factory But that nice snuggery is obsolete, and Stubbs’ Rules, sole incumbent of nocturnal tubs.——

Quibbler’s, impostors, pedlars are the rest Of history doubtful, arrant knaves at best, At least the most of them, as from the Hell Emerge you see them, flushed with wine, pellmell— All Bent-street savours of stale ale, cigars, Those laugh who win, the losers curse their stars And that star chamber that thus took them in Where policy excluded gentlemen—— Gaunt glutton, Dobby’s nod o’er acrid wine By chance ne’er absent were a chance to dine. Nod, did I say, you’ll ne’er catch Dobby napping At any table but at table rapping, For like the Ortolan, ’tis but when fed A ray of light descends upon his head——

Here statesmen stimulate ‘bedad’ such ‘gab’ And Morerice moves, infected with the scab His fleecy clients sound in wind and limb The fatal murrain seems to stick to him. Inflex pecus! slaves to Bent-st., gents, Worthy the man of his constituents—— Miasma jests of vapid marsh abound As course hilarity and lush goes round Should slightest scintillation sparkle,—thus ’Tis noxious vapour, ignis fatuus While frequent pops of gooseberry champagne, Proclaim unknown the liquor law of Mayne: Who takes example from wet former Day So never soaks, except when others pay—— While Gammay’s gammon proves him thoro’ game, And points his pedigree from noble name.—— With arm on aide de camp (if held his tongue) A passing puppet mid the motley throng.———

Etruria flourished on another plan, And lying motto proves, no prophet, man, Did this fair town, as Sodom’s fate, depend On five true men, to-day would be her end—— The warning TEKEL, cautions, ere too late For clouds and darkness hover o’er her fate, So serpents cast your skins, from slime emerge Ere H. H. mourn you in immortal dirge—

Illusive as of yore strange tales it seems The old see visions, and the young dream dreams— Such were my waking visions; dreamings too, Pass as they will, I pars them on to you, Convinced each viper with envenomed tooth Will feel, he, bites a file, who turns on truth.—— With this I’ll finish, ’ere of mopish mood Show snarling tooth and I’ll again intrude, At any time or place, with hand or pen Dare to the Lists each petty myrmidon. Full many a fling, rubs rougher wait you yet This but the Alpha, of my Alphabet—— Archilachuss will lend his prurient pen When next I note such sapient gentlemen,—— The mirrior now reflects direct the face Oblique the angle, how it sweeps o’er space The ray now strikes direct:—but he appriz’d, It won’t be healthy when ’tis polariz’d——

Much I foresee, predict for happier times When minstrels lay carol in merrier rhymes, When vicious truckling be a past disgrace, Submerged in Lethe,—springs a gen’rous race Who scon with sorrow and deep blushing frown, That, said of Sydney as of Roman town, This fearful truth,—(’twill end my tale the faster) “Neo vir fortis”———“nec——fæmino casta”——