COMMON INCIDENTS. 27 



offering, with the eagerness of a Pagan god, devouring his sacrifice, 

 spoon in hand and napkin under chin, his face as red as a lobster, 

 and large particular drops bounding their way across its volcanic sur- 

 face, suffering all the agonies of cayenne and caloric with a satanic 

 delight ; his matured capabilities of endurance resolving the fire-re- 

 joicing Chabert into a mere sucking imp ! The last I heard of him, 

 was, that he had married his cook, least she should give him 

 warning, and, assisted by his wife, was publishing a treatise on the 

 " Lights and Shades" of English cookery ! K. K. 



THE LAMENTATIONS OF A TORY. 



THE Commons House ! the Commons House ! 



Whence glorious Pitt, resounded far 

 The spells omnipotent to rouse 



The arts of peace the flames of war. 

 Your vaulted roof is standing yet, 

 But ah ! your sun of fame is set. 



Here stood a Fox and Sheridan, 



And tasked their high soul's energies; 

 They counted o'er their Whiggish clan, 



And listening to their factious cries, 

 Exulted in their close array. 

 The Question's put and where are they ? 



And where are they ? and where are ye, 

 Close Boroughs ? on your voiceless score, 



Of benches, shouts of victory 

 From Tory bosoms rise no more. 



And must a Tory bard proclaim 



The downfall of the Tory name. 



Must we but weep o'er days more bright, 



Must we but sigh for places lost. 

 Close Boroughs, exercise your right, 



Give back the glory of our host ; 

 Give back a chosen faithful few, 

 We'll fight the battle o'er anew. 



What ! silent still, and silent all ; 



Ah no, the tongues of Schedule A. 

 Responsive echo to the call, 



And with lago in the play, 

 They cry, " Put money in thy purse," 

 And you may still avoid the curse. 



Fill high the bowl with Bourdeaux wine, 



By Cam's and Isis* tuneful shore 

 Exists the offspring of a line, 



Such as our Tory mother's bore ; 

 And there, perhaps, the seed is sown, 

 Aristocratic blood may own. 



Place me on Sarum's lonely mound, 



Where nothing but the winds and I, 

 Shall hear our mutual wailings sound ; 



There, owl-like, let me live, there die. 

 A House, where Whigs in office shine, 

 Sha'n't number me, for I'll resign. 



