What'S My Thought Like?

Quest. Why is a Pump like Viscount Castlereagh? Answ. Because it is a slender thing of wood, That up and down its awkward arm doth sway, And coolly spout and spout and spout away, In one weak, washy, everlasting flood!

EPIGRAM.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A CATHOLIC DELEGATE AND HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF CUMBERLAND.

Said his Highness to Ned, with that grim face of his, "Why refuse us the Veto, dear Catholic Neddy?" "Because, Sir," said Ned, looking full in his phiz, "You're forbidding enough, in all conscience, already!"

Edward Byrne the head of the Delegates of the Irish Catholics.

WREATHS FOR THE MINISTERS.

AN ANACREONTIC.

Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers! Haste thee from old Brompton's bowers-- Or, (if sweeter that abode) From the King's well-odored Road, Where each little nursery bud Breathes the dust and quaffs the mud. Hither come and gayly twine Brightest herbs and flowers of thine Into wreaths for those who rule us, Those who rule and (some say) fool us-- Flora, sure, will love to please England's Household Deities!

First you must then, willy-nilly, Fetch me many an orange lily-- Orange of the darkest dye Irish Gifford can supply;-- Choose me out the longest sprig, And stick it in old Eldon's wig.

Find me next a Poppy posy, Type of his harangues so dozy, Garland gaudy, dull and cool, To crown the head of Liverpool. 'Twill console his brilliant brows For that loss of laurel boughs, Which they suffered (what a pity!) On the road to Paris City.

Next, our Castlereagh to crown, Bring me from the County Down, Withered Shamrocks which have been Gilded o'er to hide the green-- (Such as Headfort brought away From Pall-Mall last Patrick's Day)-- Stitch the garland thro' and thro' With shabby threads of every hue-- And as, Goddess!--entre nous-- His Lordship loves (tho' best of men) A little torture now and then, Crimp the leaves, thou first of Syrens, Crimp them with thy curling-irons.

That's enough--away, away-- Had I leisure, I could say How the oldest rose that grows Must be pluckt to deck Old Rose-- How the Doctor's brow should smile Crowned with wreaths of camomile. But time presses--to thy taste I leave the rest, so, prithee, haste!

The ancients, in like manner, crowned their Lares, or Household Gods.

Certain tinsel imitations of the Shamrock which are distributed by the Servants of Carleton House every Patrick's Day.

The sobriquet given to Lord Sidmouth.

EPIGRAM.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A DOWAGER AND HER MAID ON THE NIGHT OF LORD YARMOUTH'S FETE.

"I want the Court Guide," said my lady, "to look "If the House, Seymour Place, be at 30. or 20."-- "We've lost the Court Guide, Ma'am, but here's the Red Book. "Where you'll find, I dare say, Seymour Places in plenty!"

HORACE, ODE XI. LIB. II.