Not such yeomen as with Alfred Won their freedom long ago— Such as on the plain of Crecy Triumphed o’er a worthy foe— Such as drove invasion backward, Have their homes in Britain now! This at least our sons may utter, Blushing for their fathers’ shame— Brain me with a billy-roller, If I longer play this game, Either for the crimp of Tamworth, Or his first lieutenant, Graham! No, by Jove! I will not suffer Degradation of the kind— What care I for Johnny Russell, With his hungry host behind? Let them blunder on insanely, Digging holes within the sand, Thinking, like the stupid ostrich, To escape the hunter’s hand. Let them shirk the facts before them, Comforting themselves the while, That their Economic asses Can the public ear beguile. Lord! to hear the blockheads braying, Spite of proof before their eyes— “I assure the house,” quoth Wilson, “Wheat must very shortly rise. It was so-and-so at Dantzic More than twenty years ago; Therefore wait a little longer— ’Twill be up again, I know.” Jolly Villiers, on the other Hand, with exultation vows, More than one-and-ninety millions Have been plundered from the ploughs; And he hopes before another Year shall run its destined course, To congratulate the public That affairs are worse and worse. I, for one, am sick and weary Of these everlasting prigs; Quite disgusted with the shuffling Of the miserable Whigs; With their impudent averments, And their flagrant thimblerigs! Hark, the midnight chimes! I fancy The palaver’s nearly over: For to-night let Johnny Russell And his colleagues rest in clover. But, upon the next occasion, When there’s talk about a tax, Whether it shall weigh on foreign Or on native British backs, Master Tufnell must excuse me, If I seek another lobby Than the one that’s now frequented By my former chief, Sir Bobby! TENOR OF THE TRADE CIRCULARS. _Liverpool, April 19, 1850._ TO THE EDITOR OF BLACKWOOD’S MAGAZINE.