No, no! 'tis false! it cannot be! When saw a mortal eye Two suns within the firmament, Two glories in the sky? Nay, Walmsley, nay! thy generous heart Hath all too wide a room: We'll not believe it, e'en on oath-- There's but one Joseph Hume! II. Unsay the word so rashly said; From hasty praise forbear! Why bring a foreign Pompey here Our Cæsar's fame to share? The buzzard he is lord above, And Hume is lord below, So leave him peerless on his perch, Our solitary Joe! III. He may be known, that bearded wight, In lands beyond the foam; He may have fought the fiery fight 'Gainst taxes raised at home. And hate of kings, and scorn of peers, May rankle in his soul: But surely never hath he reached "The tottle of the whole." IV. Yes, he may tell of doughty deeds, Of battles lost and won, Of Austrian imposts bravely spurned By each reforming Hun. But dare he say that he hath borne The jeers of friend and foe, Yet still prosed on for thirty years Like our transcendant Joe? V. Or hath he stood alone in arms Against the guileful Greek, Demanding back his purchase-coin With oath, and howl, and shriek? Deemed they to hold with vulgar bonds That lion in the net? One sweep of his tremendous paw Could cancel all their debt. VI. How could we tell our Spartan wives That, in this sacred room, We dared, with impious throats, proclaim A rival to the Hume? Our children, in their hour of need, Might style us England's foes, If other chief we owned than one, The member for Montrose. VII. O soft and sweet are Cobden's tones As blackbird's in the brake; And Oldham Fox and Quaker Bright A merry music make; And Thompson's voice is clear and strong, And Kershaw's mild and low, And nightingales would hush their trill To list M'Gregor's flow; VIII. But Orpheus' self, in mute despair, Might drop his magic reed When Hume vouchsafes, in dulcet strains, The people's cause to plead. All other sounds of earth and air Are mute and lost the while; The rasping of a thousand saws, The screeching of the file. IX. With him we'll live, with him we'll die, Our lord, our light, our own; We'll keep all foemen from his face, All rivals from his throne. Though Tory prigs, and selfish Whigs, His onward course assail. Here stand a hundred delegates, All joints of Joseph's tail. X. Ho, there! remove that hairy Hun With beard as white as snow; We need no rank reformers here To cope with honest Joe. Not Muntz, with all his bristly pride, From him our hearts can wean: We know his ancient battle-cry-- "Shave close, my friends, and clean!" MY PENINSULAR MEDAL.