Speech On The Umbrella Question.[1]

BY LORD ELDON.

1827.

"vos inumbrelles video."--Ex Juvenil. GEORGII CANNINGII.

My Lords, I'm accused of a trick that God knows is The last into which at my age I could fall-- Of leading this grave House of Peers by their noses, Wherever I choose, princes, bishops and all.

My Lords, on the question before us at present, No doubt I shall hear, "'Tis that cursed old fellow, "That bugbear of all that is liberal and pleasant, "Who won't let the Lords give the man his umbrella!"

God forbid that your Lordships should knuckle to me; I am ancient--but were I as old as King Priam, Not much, I confess, to your credit 'twould be, To mind such a twaddling old Trojan as I am.

I own, of our Protestant laws I am jealous, And long as God spares me will always maintain, That once having taken men's rights, or umbrellas, We ne'er should consent to restore them again.

What security have you, ye Bishops and Peers, If thus you give back Mr. Bell's parapluie, That he mayn't with its stick, come about all your ears, And then--where would your Protestant periwigs be?

No! heaven be my judge, were I dying to-day, Ere I dropt in the grave, like a medlar that's mellow, "For God's sake"--at that awful moment I'd say-- "For God's sake, don't give Mr. Bell his umbrella."

["This address," says a ministerial journal, "delivered with amazing emphasis and earnestness, occasioned an extraordinary sensation in the House. Nothing since the memorable address of the Duke of York has produced so remarkable an impression."]

A case which interested the public very much at this period. A gentleman, of the name, of Bell, having left his umbrella behind him in the House of Lords, the doorkeepers (standing, no doubt, on the privileges of that noble body) refused to restore it to him; and the above speech, which may be considered as a pendant to that of the Learned Earl on the Catholic Question, arose out of the transaction.

From Mr. Canning's translation of Jekyl's--

"I say, my good fellows, As you've no umbrellas."

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

BY JOHN BULL.

Dublin, March 12, 1827.--Friday, after the arrival of the packet bringing the account of the defeat of the Catholic Question, in the House of Commons, orders were sent to the Pigeon-House to forward 5,000,000 rounds of musket-ball cartridge to the different garrisons round the country.--Freeman's Journal.

I have found out a gift for my Erin, A gift that will surely content her:-- Sweet pledge of a love so endearing! Five millions of bullets I've sent her.

She askt me for Freedom and Right, But ill she her wants understood;-- Ball cartridges, morning and night, Is a dose that will do her more good.

There is hardly a day of our lives But we read, in some amiable trials, How husbands make love to their wives Thro' the medium of hemp and of vials.

One thinks, with his mistress or mate A good halter is sure to agree-- That love-knot which, early and late, I have tried, my dear Erin, on thee.

While another, whom Hymen has blest With a wife that is not over placid, Consigns the dear charmer to rest, With a dose of the best Prussic acid.

Thus, Erin! my love do I show-- Thus quiet thee, mate of my bed! And, as poison and hemp are too slow, Do thy business with bullets instead.

Should thy faith in my medicine be shaken, Ask Roden, that mildest of saints; He'll tell thee, lead, inwardly taken, Alone can remove thy complaints;--

That, blest as thou art in thy lot, Nothing's wanted to make it more pleasant But being hanged, tortured and shot, Much oftener than thou art at present.

Even Wellington's self hath averred Thou art yet but half sabred and hung, And I loved him the more when I heard Such tenderness fall from his tongue.

So take the five millions of pills, Dear partner, I herewith inclose; 'Tis the cure that all quacks for thy ill, From Cromwell to Eldon, propose.

And you, ye brave bullets that go, How I wish that, before you set out, The Devil of the Freischütz could know The good work you are going about.

For he'd charm ye, in spite of your lead. Into such supernatural wit. That you'd all of you know, as you sped, Where a bullet of sense ought to hit.