274 A Lyrical Letter, from William Cobbett, Esq. [MABCH, 



There's a young bard who writes of Satan better, 

 His name's Montgomery ; as for Milton, pooh ! 

 There is more rhyme in tkis my single letter, 

 Tlum all his blank-verse book ! I've read it through. 



But let me to this portrait travel back. 

 The style, it seems, enchants all Art's connections ; 

 Thousands of noblemen are on the rack 

 To get the thing into their own collections. 

 The Staffords, Bedfords, Westminsters by dozens, 

 All want the gem for what ? to grace thrir walls ; 

 They offer to take down their prigs of cousins, 

 And hang my picture in their hated halls. 

 They'll give up Pitts, and Peels, and silly lords 

 Fellows that ought to have been hung elsewhere ; 

 Eldons in wigs, and Wellingtons with swords 

 And all to get one honest portrait there. 

 But now mark this, my friends ; I will not curse ; 

 Yet if I should consent, then call me Tory 

 A Scotchman or a Lord , or, what is worse, 

 Choose me for Westminster, with great Sir Glory ! 



Again, the governors of old St. Luke's 

 Think that it would in their asylum shine ; 

 But I've referred these folks to several Dukes, 

 With heads (if heads they are) more fit than mine. 

 No let the contest thus be set at rest : 

 When Manchester shall make her name immortal, 

 By sending through the House of Commons' portal, 

 The man who, singly, got her wrongs redressed 

 'Tis my intention then and there to move, 

 That, at the public cost, a hall be reared 

 Worthy to hold a relic so revered, 

 For public exhibition and I'll prove 

 That in six months, in shillings from the poor, 

 The famished poor, the show alone will nett 

 A marvellous sum, a fund that shall ensure 

 The nation's freedom from that THING, the Debt ! 

 This I shall prove I hate your mere assertions, 

 And into fiction's realms make no excursions. 

 Now shew me which, of all your Whigs and wits 

 The Greys, Broughams, Russells, of that wretched race, 

 With all their phrenzy, flummery and fits 

 Can save his country, when he shews his face ! 



This measure passed, with other glorious motions 



Taxation over, and the Whigs turned out, 



The labourers rich, arid landlords in a rout, 



I mean to cross that paragon of oceans, 



The bold Atlantic ; I accepting there 



An invitation, made a thousand times, 



To fill the President's perpetual chair, 



And reign the new Columbus of those climes. 



Yet will I not desert my people pshaw ! 



I mean my readers, and the labourers, here ; 



Let good America my service draw, 



And Europe have me likewise each a year. 



Thus, my Disciples, I shall ever be 



Your faithful benefactor, 



WM. C 



