"Who will not be alive to the merits of the following verses on the death of the British Constitution, which has been dying for the last four years at least. The lament of the Conservative party over his death and burial abounds in feeling and sentiment worthy of its prototype." Not a moan was heard--not a funeral note, As his corpse to the devil they hurried, Not a speaker discharged his farewell shot, O'er the grave where our idol was buried. They buried him darkly at dead of night, With their threats our remonstrance turning, By the struggling Stephen's misty light, In the brazen socket burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, In a sheet of parchment they bound him, And he lay with Old Sarum for ever at rest, With schedule A around him. Few and short were the speeches said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow, But we mournfully looked on the face of the dead, And thought of the coming morrow. We thought as they tumbled him into his bed, And laid him at rest on his pillow, That the Radical soon would step over our head, And we be turned out by the bill--oh! Lightly they talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, But England's destroyed if they let him sleep on, In the grave where Lord Russell has laid him. But half our heavy task was done, When the time came for ending the session, And we heard by the sound of the Tower gun, That the King was now in procession, Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the further defence of the Tory, We carved not a line on his funeral stone, But we left him alone in his glory. _Figaro in London_, 8th September, 1832. * * * * * There was another parody of these celebrated lines published just after Mr. John O'Connell had threatened to die on the floor of the House of Commons, a threat which, of course, gave rise to more laughter than dismay:-- LINES, (AFTER WOLFE) _Written on the threatened Death_ (_on the Floor of the House_) _of John O'Connell_. Not a groan was heard, not a pitying note, As down on the floor he hurried; Not a member offered to lend his coat, Or ask'd how he'd like to be buried We looked at him slily at dead of night, Our backs adroitly turning, That he might not see us laugh outright By the lights so brightly burning. No useless advice we on him press'd, Nor in argument we wound him; But we left him to lie, and take his rest, With his Irish _clique_ around him. Few and short were the speeches made, And we spoke not a word in sorrow; But we thought, as we look'd, though we leave him for dead, He'll be fresh as a lark to-morrow.