Wo! Wo![1]

Wo, wo unto him who would check or disturb it-- That beautiful Light which is now on its way; Which beaming, at first, o'er the bogs of Belturbet, Now brightens sweet Ballinafad with its ray!

Oh Farnham, Saint Farnham, how much do we owe thee! How formed to all tastes are thy various employs. The old, as a catcher of Catholics, know thee; The young, as an amateur scourger of boys.

Wo, wo to the man who such doings would smother!-- On, Luther of Bavan! On, Saint of Kilgroggy! With whip in one hand and with Bible in t'other, Like Mungo's tormentor, both "preachee and floggee."

Come, Saints from all quarters, and marshal his way; Come, Lorton, who, scorning profane erudition, Popt Shakespeare, they say, in the river one day, Tho' 'twas only old Bowdler's Velluti edition.

Come, Roden, who doubtest--so mild are thy views-- Whether Bibles or bullets are best for the nation; Who leav'st to poor Paddy no medium to choose 'Twixt good old Rebellion and new Reformation.

What more from her Saints can Hibernia require? St. Bridget of yore like a dutiful daughter Supplied her, 'tis said, with perpetual fire, And Saints keep her now in eternal hot water.

Wo, wo to the man who would check their career, Or stop the Millennium that's sure to await us, When blest with an orthodox crop every year, We shall learn to raise Protestants fast as potatoes.

In kidnapping Papists, our rulers, we know, Had been trying their talent for many a day; Till Farnham, when all had been tried, came to show, Like the German flea-catcher, "anoder goot way."

And nothing's more simple than Farnham's receipt;-- "Catch your Catholic, first--soak him well in poteen, "Add salary sauce, and the thing is complete. "You may serve up your Protestant smoking and clean."

"Wo, wo to the wag, who would laugh at such cookery!" Thus, from his perch, did I hear a black crow Caw angrily out, while the rest of the rookery Opened their bills and re-echoed "Wo! wo!"

Suggested by a speech of the Bishop of Chester on the subject of the New Reformation in Ireland, in which his Lordship denounced "Wo! Wo! Wo!" pretty abundantly on all those who dared to interfere with its progress.

The inextenguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare.

"We understand that several applications have lately been made to the Protestant clergymen of this town by fellows, inquiring 'What are they giving a head for converts?'"--Wexford Post.

Of the rook species--Corvus frugilegus, i.e. a great consumer of corn.

TOUT POUR LA TRIPE.

"If in China or among the natives of India, we claimed civil advantages which were connected with religious usages, little as we might value those forms in our hearts, we should think common decency required us to abstain from treating them with offensive contumely; and, though unable to consider them sacred, we would not sneer at the name of Fot, or laugh at the imputed divinity of Visthnou."--Courier, Tuesday. Jan. 16.

1827.

Come take my advice, never trouble your cranium, When "civil advantages" are to be gained, What god or what goddess may help to obtain you 'em, Hindoo or Chinese, so they're only obtained.

In this world (let me hint in your organ auricular) All the good things to good hypocrites fall; And he who in swallowing creeds is particular, Soon will have nothing to swallow at all.

Oh place me where Fo (or, as some call him, Fot) Is the god from whom "civil advantages" flow, And you'll find, if there's anything snug to be got, I shall soon be on excellent terms with old Fo.

Or were I where Vishnu, that four-handed god, Is the quadruple giver of pensions and places, I own I should feel it unchristian and odd Not to find myself also in Vishnu's good graces.

For among all the gods that humanely attend To our wants in this planet, the gods to my wishes Are those that, like Vishnu and others, descend In the form so attractive, of loaves and of fishes!

So take my advice--for if even the devil Should tempt men again as an idol to try him, 'Twere best for us Tories even then to be civil, As nobody doubts we should get something by him.

Vishnu was (as Sir W. Jones calls him) "a pisciform god,"--his first Avatar being in the shape of a fish.

ENIGMA.

monstrum nulla virtute redemptum.

Come, riddle-me-ree, come, riddle-me-ree, And tell me what my name may be. I am nearly one hundred and thirty years old, And therefore no chicken, as you may suppose;-- Tho' a dwarf in my youth (as my nurses have told), I have, every year since, been out-growing my clothes: Till at last such a corpulent giant I stand, That if folks were to furnish me now with a suit, It would take every morsel of scrip in the land But to measure my bulk from the head to the foot. Hence they who maintain me, grown sick of my stature, To cover me nothing but rags will supply; And the doctors declare that in due course of nature About the year 30 in rags I shall die. Meanwhile, I stalk hungry and bloated around, An object of interest most painful to all; In the warehouse, the cottage, the place I'm found, Holding citizen, peasant, and king in nay thrall. Then riddle-me-ree, oh riddle-me-ree, Come tell me what my name may be.

When the lord of the counting-house bends o'er his book, Bright pictures of profit delighting to draw, O'er his shoulders with large cipher eyeballs I look, And down drops the pen from his paralyzed paw! When the Premier lies dreaming of dear Waterloo, And expects thro' another to caper and prank it, You'd laugh did you see, when I bellow out "Boo!" How he hides his brave Waterloo head in the blanket. When mighty Belshazzar brims high in the hall His cup, full of gout, to the Gaul's overthrow, Lo, "Eight Hundred Millions" I write on the wall, And the cup falls to earth and--the gout to his toe! But the joy of my heart is when largely I cram My maw with the fruits of the Squirearchy's acres, And knowing who made me the thing that I am, Like the monster of Frankenstein, worry my makers. Then riddle-me-ree, come, riddle-me-ree, And tell, if thou know'st, who I may be.

DOG-DAY REFLECTIONS.

BY A DANDY KEPT IN TOWN.

"vox clamantis in deserto."

1827.

Said Malthus one day to a clown Lying stretched on the beach in the sun,-- "What's the number of souls in this town?"-- "The number! Lord bless you, there's none.

"We have nothing but dabs in this place, "Of them a great plenty there are;-- But the soles, please your reverence and grace, "Are all t'other side of the bar."

And so 'tis in London just now, Not a soul to be seen up or down;-- Of dabs? a great glut, I allow, But your soles, every one, out of town.

East or west nothing wondrous or new, No courtship or scandal worth knowing; Mrs. B---, and a Mermaid or two, Are the only loose fish that are going.

Ah, where is that dear house of Peers That some weeks ago kept us merry? Where, Eldon, art thou with thy tears? And thou with thy sense, Londonderry?

Wise Marquis, how much the Lord Mayor, In the dog-days, with thee must be puzzled!-- It being his task to take care That such animals shan't go unmuzzled.

Thou too whose political toils Are so worthy a captain of horse-- Whose amendments (like honest Sir Boyle's) Are "amendments, that make matters worse;"

Great Chieftain, who takest such pains To prove--what is granted, nem. con.-- With how moderate a portion of brains Some heroes contrive to get on.

And thou too my Redesdale, ah! where Is the peer with a star at his button, Whose quarters could ever compare With Redesdale's five quarters of mutton?

Why, why have ye taken your flight, Ye diverting and dignified crew? How ill do three farces a night, At the Haymarket, pay us for you!

For what is Bombastes to thee, My Ellenbro', when thou look'st big Or where's the burletta can be Like Lauderdale's wit and his wig?

I doubt if even Griffinhoof could (Tho' Griffin's a comical lad) Invent any joke half so good As that precious one, "This is too bad!"

Then come again, come again Spring! Oh haste thee, with Fun in thy train; And--of all things the funniest--bring These exalted Grimaldis again!

One of the shows of London.

More particularly his Grace's celebrated amendment to the Corn Bill: for which, and the circumstances connected with it, see Annual Register for A. D. 1827.

From a speech of Sir Boyle Roche's, in the Irish House of Commons.

The learning his Lordship displayed on the subject of the butcher's "fifth quarter" of mutton will not speedily be forgotten.

The nom de guerre under which Colman has written some of his best farces.