Merlin's Prophecy for the Year 1831 ! [JAN. 



TT ^ ^ i 



Must give up their Opera-boxes, 



Must give up still prettier things- 

 Soft as turtles, sly as foxes, 



Dear to men of stars and strings ! 



Down his Highness goes for ever ! 



Heartless, haughty, hollow, cold ; 

 Scorn has purged Ambition's fever, 



Ridicule his tale has told. 

 With him sink his slavish rabble 



Puny, pettifogging gang ! 

 Fit in Treasury lies to dabble, 



Fit to cheer their Lord's harangue. 



Now, Sir Bob, farewell thy proncurs ! 



Even Bill Holmes will cut thee dead ; 

 All by tricks, and none by honours, 



Even thy Treasury game has fled. 

 Shelved on Opposition benches, 



Hume himself o'er thee shall crow 

 Whig, prig, Russell, storm thy trenches : 



Go, where thou at last must go ! 



All ye pets in Treasury chariots ; 



All ye pampered, would-be queens 

 Wives of Pilates and Iscariots, 



Twenty summers past your teens ! 

 On your cheeks your calling painted, 



Battered, shattered, drunken, old 

 All ye reputations tainted, 



Howl ! your hour of pride is told ! 



All ye shallow Michael Cassios, 



All ye men of aiguillettes, 

 All ye genus of mustachios, 



All ye Hussar dandizettes ; 

 All ye tinselled aides-de-camp, 



Proud to lick a Marshal's shoe, 

 Scarlet as ye are, ere long, 



Like your Marshal, ye'll look blue. 



Ireland, " gem of land and ocean ! 



Finest pisantry on earth !" 

 Wholesale dealer in commotion ! 



Soil of murder and of mirth ! 

 Hack for every scoundrel's straddle, 



Every brawling beggar's dupe ; 

 Dan O'Connell on thy saddle 



Anglesey upon thy croupe. 



Famed for Papists and potatoes ; 



Famed for patriots, thick and thin ; 

 Crammed with Brutuses and Catos 



Every soul a Jacobin ! 



