56 Ode to Colonel Jones. [JAN. 



And fancied you would intercede with Davy 



To spare our navy ! 



We thought, oh! Jones, 

 That you in time would mount his thousand thrones. 



If not as king, 



As president, or some such thing, 

 To govern those Low Countries by the year. 

 But you, alas ! prefer remaining here ; 

 And though the nation for your likeness grieved 



(We, as we should, 

 Have, like the Tory aldermen, conceived 



Designs on Wood), 

 Not satisfied with one expressive " cut," 



You wish with fifty to be slaughtered ; 

 Though " drawn" already, not contented, but 

 Determined also to be quartered. 



Upon my word, 



Tis strange how some folks hate to be interred. 

 Consider, Colonel, what you are resigning ; 

 You'll have no funeral no blazoned hearse, 



Save in this verse ; 



No " nice gilt nails/* no shroud, no plumes declining ; 

 No flambeaux and no friends, no feathers fine ; 

 No cake, no cambric-handkerchief, no wine 

 No coffin, and no curate not a tear 



To trickle down, 



And spoil the sable velvet of the bier, 

 Making the mutes and men in mourning frown ; 

 Nothing that sets one longing to be dead, 

 And puts one out of temper with this life ; 



But, ah ! instead, 



(I would not shock you, but I shudder, Jones !) 

 Sir Astley with his knife 



Picking your bones! 



IV. 



Yes, so it is ; already Mr. Green 

 Regards you as a treasure in his net ; 

 Sir Astley sends his scalpel to be set ; 

 Relentless Bransby glares with happier mien ; 

 Wild Wakley pants, as if your eyes were pearls, 

 And Earle is happier far than other earls. 



The veteran Brookes 

 Fixes upon you his most longing looks, 



And wishes they were hooks. 

 Short Mr. Croft of Surgeons' Hall 



Feels tall ! 



The " University" is all alive, 

 And spite of Council-orders, hopes to thrive ; 



The new Strand-College 



Totters beforehand with its weight of knowledge j 

 And all the faculty, lost Colonel Jones, 



Grows fat upon your bones ! 

 Meantime a grateful nation fondly moans 

 Both lords with windows boarded, lads with stones ; 

 Their sense of right the generous gift disowns. 

 And deems such sacrifices fit for thrones. 



Oh ! leave such loans 



To dukes and drones ! 

 Thine be a cenotaph say one of Soane's ; 

 Where crowds shall gather with despairing groans, 

 The marble echoing back, in hollow tones 

 " JONES !" 



