Who scratch’d up Europe like a hen, To fling out grains for us young men? Who shut the mouth and stopped the pen? My Uncle! Who broke through rights and smash’d through laws, To find neat crowns for our papas, And shot young D’ENGHIEN in _our_ cause? My Uncle! Who left us something still to do―― A name to keep French passions true To _us_――the name of Waterloo? My Uncle! Who gave me all my little name, My little hopes, my little fame, My little everything, but blame? My Uncle! _Punch_, January 3, 1852. ――――:o:―――― MY UNCLE. Who, by a transmutation bold, Turns clothes or watches, new and old, Or any other goods, to gold? My Uncle! Who, by a duplication rare, Makes Hunger’s chattels (scant and bare) Produce first cash, and then good fare? My Uncle! Who, when my credit got quite low, Handed me cash on Jane’s _trousseau_, And lent a suite of paste for show? My Uncle! Who caused her silks our mouths to fill, And made my full-dress shirt with frill Discharge a fortnight’s butcher’s bill? My Uncle! When creditors――a ruthless crew―― Had “small accounts just coming due,” Who stopped their clamorous tongues? Why you, My Uncle! And when attorneys round me pressed With writs of judgment and arrest, Who set for weeks their quills at rest? My Uncle! Who lent us hundreds three and four, And kindly kept our plate secure, When we commenced our foreign tour? My Uncle! _Punch_, March, 1845. MY UNCLE. Who dwells at yonder three gold balls Where Poverty so often calls To place her relics in his walls? My Uncle. Who cheers the heart with “money lent,” When friends are cold, and all is spent, Receiving only cent. per cent? My Uncle. Who cares not what distress may bring, If stolen from beggar or from king, And, like the sea, takes everything? My Uncle. Who, wiser than each sage of yore, Who Alchemy would fain explore, Can make whate’er he touches ore? My Uncle. Who, when the wretch is sunk in grief And none besides will yield relief, Will aid the honest or the thief? My Uncle. Who, when detection threatens law, His secret stores will open draw, That future rogues may stand in awe? My Uncle. Bought wisdom is the best, ’tis clear, And since ’tis better as more dear, We, for high usance, should revere, My Uncle.