1832.] [ 273 ] 



A LYRICAL LETTER, FROM WILLIAM COBBETT, ESQ. 



[Extracted from Cobbett's POETICAL REGISTER, of the Thirty-first of February.] 



FRIENDS AND DISCIPLES, 



Readers of the page 

 The only one, observe, that paints this age 

 In honest black and white ! you here may see 

 (Woe to the Whig that would of praises rob it) 

 A good old English portrait, meant for me, 

 Your friend and fellow-labourer, WM. COBBETT. 

 Yes, good old English ; not the gew-gaw things 

 Sent forth as likenesses of lords and kings, 

 Scrawled upon plates of copper which, my friends, 

 We'd rather have in pence, those metal charmers, 

 Or scratched on steel which might serve other ends, 

 If turned to knives and forks for famished farmers. 

 Why not use proper metals? Why not lead? 

 'Twou'd suit the Aberdeens, and all that class ; 

 Then Londonderry might behold his head 

 Engraved on triple-cased, congenial brass. 

 And yet, had this same rule held always good, 

 I think you'd ne'er have seen my head on wood ! 

 No ; all the wood, now wasted upon brigs, 

 Would then be wanted for those heartless, cold, 

 Disgraced, undone, and despicable Whigs 

 While COBBETT'S honest front should gleam on GOLD ! 



But I despise such things, so let them shine 



In stipple, line, or mezzotint for me ; 



And let them now just scan this face of mine, 



Carved on a bit of genuine British tree ! 



Here let them come, and tremble too, to see 



An eye that shoots dismay through all their line, 



And lips whose scorn still" stings the stupid set ; 



White hairs, that never knew a touch of shame, 



Because they never lined a coronet, 



Or skulked beneath a wig I hate the name ! 



Yes, let them see the man who still his pen holds 



Firm, as at first and then declare to you 



If any artist of the courtly crew 



Sir Joshua Lawrence, or Sir Thomas Reynolds, 



Or Claude, or Cruikshank whether sot or saint 



Ever had such a head as mine to paint ! 



I'm not conceited no, I hate conceit 



But don't you think, as Englishmen must do, 



That this bold face of mine bids fair to beat 



The best that Thomas Landseer ever drew ? 



I know he hit the Monkeys off in style, 



And Satan sat to him the other day ; 



But these are far behind me, many a mile, 



In all that brings the passions into play. 



As for the Monkeys, they might pass for peers 



Or other animals, with longer ears. 



And then that Satan him I always hated, 



Since first I read a poem which they call 



But I forget the name one highly rated, 



By Milton, stuffed with balderdash and brawl. 



