652 Notes of the Month on Affairs in General. [J UNE, 
Eighteen hundred and twenty-five, 
Not a Protestant left alive ! 
Eighteen hundred and twenty-seven, 
Widows and orphans cry for vengeance to Heaven ; 
Eighteen hundred and twenty-nine, 
» A Milesian king shall o’er us reign ; 
Eighteen hundred and thirty, 
The struggle’s ended—peace and plenty. 
The prophecy has rather failed in its glorious anticipation of 1825 ; 
and we know no argument by which we can console the Mother of all: 
Churches for the disappointment. But let her rest in hope. Pro- 
testantism is at a discount already in all directions, The Houses of 
Parliament have outvoted it by mighty majorities ; and we certainly have 
not yet come to the full extent of the complacency which our politicians 
are willing to exhibit for the opinions of the premier. But we have 
had our predictions on our side the water, too—not, perhaps, quite so 
spiritualized—but borne out hitherto by facts, stubborn enough in 
their way. 
PREDICTION. 
From a MS. found in Arthur O’Connor’s baggage in 1798, on his escape to Franee. 
Kighteen hundred twenty-one, 
No man thinks of Wellington ; 
Eighteen hundred twenty-two, 
Wellington joins Canning’s crew ; 
Eighteen hundred twenty-three, 
Wellington joins Castlereagh ; 
Eighteen hundred twenty-four, 
Wellington joins. Burdett’s corps ; 
Eighteen hundred twenty-five, 
Wellington and joint stocks thrive ; 
Eighteen hundred twenty-six, 4 
Wellington tries Canning’s tricks ; 
Eighteen hundred twenty-seven, 
Canning goes (perhaps) to heaven ; 
Eighteen hundred twenty-eight, 
Goderich bungles Church and State ; 
Eighteen hundred twenty-nine, 
Wellington! they both are thine. 
Then, secure of ayes and nges, 
Monarchs kiss his ducal toes ! 
Lawyers, prelates, nobles, all 
At his Highness’ footstool fall. 
Eighteen hundred thirty-one, 
Look to altar and to throne ; 
Eighteen hundred thirty-two, 
* Freedom, bid the land adieu ; 
Eighteen hundred thirty-three, 
Windsor, who shall sit in thee ? 
Righteen hundred thirty-four, 
Field and flood are red with gore ; 
Eighteen hundred thirty-five, 
Martyrs with the tortures strive ; 
Eighteen hundred thirty-six, 
Welcome idol, host, and pix ; ; 1 
Eighteen hundred thirty-seven, 
Rome, thy furious triumph’s given ; 
Eighteen hundred thirty-nine, 
All are wrapt in wrath divine ! 
