Who, now that naughty CASTLEREAGH With Sharman Crawford’s gone astray, For Downshire ought to win the day? My Member. Who, since the seat I’ve dearly bought, Must in for it at once be brought (At least, so I have always thought)? My Member. Who, if he calls his soul his own, And don’t his views to mine postpone, Shall overboard at once be thrown? My Member. Who, when I say that wrong is right, That truth is falsehood, black is white, Must take the self-same point of sight? My Member. Who, at my will, is deaf, dumb, blind, And, howsoever disinclined, Must, if he _will_ speak, speak my mind? My Member. Who with my letters ne’er must fence, But praise the style and guess the sense, Despite the number, mood, and tense? My Member. Who, in the park or in the street, Shall have a nod whene’er we meet, And at my balls shall shake his feet? My Member. Who, ’neath such favours shower’d _en masse_, From mere humanity shall pass, And be my man, my ox, my ass? My Member. _Punch_, June 5, 1852. [The Viscount Castlereagh, eldest son of the Marquis of Londonderry, sat as the member for County Down from 1826 to 1852, and the seat had always, until then, been regarded as family property.] ――――:o:―――― TO MY MURRAY. _Autumn_, 1857. The Wind and tide have brought us fast, The Custom House is well nigh past, Alas; that this should be the last; My Murray. The spirits in my flask grew low, Mine sinking too, I rushed below, And in despair, cried, “Steward, oh!” My Murray. But once on shore, my troubles end, Sights, sounds, no longer me offend, I clap thee on the back, my friend! My Murray. My classics, once a shining store, For thee put by this month or more, Now rust disused and shine no more, My Murray. So well thou’st played the hand-book’s part, For inns a hint, for routes a chart, That every line I’ve got by heart My Murray. And though thou gladly would’st fulfil, The same kind office for me still, My purse now seconds not my will, My Murray. Thy shabby sides once crimson bright Are quite as lovely in my sight, As mountains bathed in roseate light, My Murray. For should I view them without thee, What sights worth seeing could I see, The Rhine would run in vain for me, My Murray.