[ 208 ] [FEB. 



PARLIAMENTARY PASTORALS. 



No. I. BY CORYDON CROKER ; FAMILIARLY KNOWN AS THE " POTATO-POET." 

 On ! ye Clubs, spread your doors open wide, 



To your darkest recesses I fly ; 

 From those terrible Whigs I would hide, 



And escape from each Radical's eye. 

 'Tis a shame that no author can brook 



To be damned in that Scottish Review ; 

 But Macauley has cut up my book, 



And my speeches demolishes too. 

 Quotations of Latin and Greek 



I always have ready at hand ; 

 When the subject inspires me to speak, 



With an eloquence brilliant and grand : 

 I own that I sometimes misquote, 



And am often more flippant than fine ; 

 But I learn all my speeches by rote, 



And I sometimes forget ev'ry line. 

 But never from History's page, 



Will I think of quotations again ; 

 For so little I look like a sage, 



When my blunders are proved to be plain. 

 And I've had so much drubbing of late, 



That I always feel nervous and shy, 

 If Jeffery should join the debate, 



Or Stanley should rise to reply. 

 Yet my friends echo loudly their " Hears !" 



When they think I've been making a hit, 

 And they flatter me on with their cheers, 



While mistaking my nonsense for wit. 

 I have spoken when late was the hour, 



Yet they made the roof ring with their joys ; 

 Poor things ! what they wanted in power, 



They determined to make up in noise. 

 'Tis in vain I am witty and wise, 



In my best and most eloquent mood ; 

 The reporters compress my replies, 



And omit all I thought was so good. 

 Though attacked by a ruffianly Press, 



One Paper at least I can boast ; 

 Yet between you and I, I confess, 



There's seldom much sense in a " Post." 

 E'en the " Bull" seems to lie upon thorns, 



And roars with a terrible look ; 

 Yet he does little harm with his horns, 



Though possessing the power of a Hook. 

 But our " Standard" flies high and erect, 



As it waves its proud flag to the wind ; 

 (Not a soul, I believe, can suspect, 



How much they may tremble behind.) 

 I pass by King Charles and his Horse, 



As I go to St. Stephen's alone ; 

 And I look to the right with remorse, 



Where so long I made all things my own. 

 If I hadn't adhered to his Grace, 



When he made that rash vow 'gainst Reform ; 

 I might have been still in my Place, 



Like "the Pilot that weathered the Storm." 



