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SONG : FOR THE FIRST OF APRIL. 



GOOD reader, these are times, too serious for rhymes ; 



The world's been full of crimes, since we were whipped at school 

 Yet some men have no taint, 'gainst them we've no complaint, 



And Cumberland 's a saint Oh, you April Fool ? 



The Tories, so they say, resolve to fast and pray, 



Repenting (well they may !) their errors and misrule ; 



Eldon 's resigned his fees, his conscience to appease, 

 And Wharncliffe 's on his knees Oh, you April Fool ! 



The Derry boys aspire, above each base desire ; 



Lord Londonderry's ire has now begun to cool ; 

 There 's Wetherell in haste, now buttoning up his waist, 



And Ellenborough's chaste Oh, you April Fool ! 



There's Hunt has grown genteel, as Hardinge or as Peel, 

 And Croker now can feel a drubbing like a mule ; 



While Perceval at last, has really made us fast, 

 And then the Bill has passed Oh, you April Fool ! 



Now Cobbett's morals mend, he calls "The Times" his friend, 

 Our cares are at an end, O'Connell's grown a tool ; 



For Ireland cries jam satis, and this a truth I state is, 

 He loves the tithes like 'taties Oh, you April fool ! 



Our Aldermen forswear all corporation fare, 



And take themselves to pray'r, on some convenient stool, 



And they with thoughts divine to "Temperance" incline, 

 And send the Poor their wine Oh, you April Fool ! 



The Cholera rages still, in spite the Doctors' skill, 



Continuing to kill, with systematic rule ; 

 Among the Peers it spread, the Tories quickly fled, 



The Bishops are all dead Oh, you April Fool ! 



The Lords are growing wise ; they write to our surprise, 



The gravest tragedies, as humorous as Poole ; 

 Their genius soars so high, from them must Shakspeare fly, 



And Milton's " all my eye" Oh, you April Fool ! 



Some flourish in debating, astonish in narrating, 

 Are clever in translating, as Sotheby or as Hoole ; 



We've all so happy grown, by their good deeds alone, 

 That taxes are unknown Oh, you April Fool ! 



And now all heroes fly, to conquer or to die, 



And " Freedom !" is the cry, from Timbuctoo to Thule ; 



His murderers remain, where Torrijos was slain, 

 And Poland 's free again Oh, you April Fool ! 



M. M. New Scries. VOL. XIII. No. 76. 2 G 



