――――:o:―――― THE JESUIT TO HIS GRANDMOTHER. Who, when I was a puny child And drew my interference mild, Shrieked at me, and grew very wild? My Whalley! Who, when the country let me play, Grabbed at my toys day after day, And scared my very foes away? My Whalley! Who thus, when things seemed growing slack, With injudicious, wild attack, Brought all my finest business back? My Whalley! Who, when the House discussed my claim, Yelled at me――called me every name, Till I got votes――for very shame? My Whalley! Who, when he rose his change to ring, “Like Paganini, on one string,” Was very strongly urged to sing? My Whalley! Who, when his name became a jest, By friends well cursed――by foes well blest―― Himself to other arts addressed? My Whalley! Who all his nasty powers tasked, And spread――Lord Campbell’s Act unasked―― His famed “Confessional Unmasked”? My Whalley! Who foremost in the Turnbull chase, When bigots drove him from his place, In savage war-paint led the race? My Whalley! Turnbull no more, who still must rave, And, none to answer, call him knave―― Insult the dead man in his grave? My Whalley! Who, by such wiles――friends not too true, And enemies by no means few―― Rallied them _all_ around me?――Who? My Whalley! Who thus, should the whole Order fail, And Grand Inquisitors turn tail, In _any_ mess will stand my bail? My Whalley! And who, unto the very end, My honour――life――will e’er defend?―― My grandmother!――my truest friend!―― My Whalley! _The Tomahawk_, August 31, 1867. [The late Mr. G. H. Whalley sat for many years as M.P. for Peterborough, and was noted for the bitterness of his attacks on the Roman Catholics. On rising to address the House of Commons he was frequently greeted with cries of “Sing, Whalley, sing!”] ――――:o:―――― MY WHISKERS. What causes all the folks to stare, As I strut by _en militaire_, And makes my face all over hair? My Whiskers. Why do the children laugh with glee? ’Tis no uncommon sight to see. Ah! no; they only envy me My Whiskers. What wounds with twenty thousand darts When practising the game of hearts, And such sweet vanity imparts? My Whiskers. How I can quiz a naked chin, And mimic every vulgar grin; But I’ll be bound they’ll laugh who win, My Whiskers.