As welcome as a richer see Would prove to Exeter, or thee, Thy kindly greeting comes to me, My Bishop! ’Tis sweet to think whoever draws His sword against the people’s cause Is sure, at least, of thy applause, My Bishop. And whether ’tis Old Nick or Nero, With morals, like my own, at zero, Thou’lt hail him as the Church’s hero, My Bishop. The world may hold thy “Nolo” light, But where men come to ask their right Thy “Nolo” may be trusted quite, My Bishop. Love to the bench, should you and they Chance to be ousted some fine day, Pop over here to Lisbon, pray, My Bishop. For though ’twill doubtless dull appear Without your thousands five per year, You’ll meet some kindred spirits here, My Bishop. THOMAS MOORE. (In 1826 Don Pedro, King of Portugal, abdicated the throne in favour of his daughter, Maria II., but his brother Don Miguel, usurped the crown, which he retained until 1833, amidst almost incessant civil war, and commotion. His character was detestable, and his reign cruel and tyrannical, yet Henry Phillpotts, the grasping and intolerant Bishop of Exeter, gave him his sympathy. Thomas Moore, in this parody, refers to the Bishop’s greed (at one time he held no less than five rich livings, and two prebendal stalls), and to the part he took in defence of the detestable Peterloo massacre of innocent people assembled at a public meeting. Fortunately for Portugal there were few Englishmen who followed Phillpotts in befriending Don Miguel, and the news of his downfall, in 1833, and the proclamation of Queen Maria, were loudly welcomed in England. Miguel had visited London in 1827; he died in exile in November, 1866.) ――――:o:―――― THE PROCTOR. Who is it, that with bull-dogs two, With brass-bound book, and cloaks of blue, Is capped on Sundays _by a few_? The Proctor. Who is’t in bands and silk so fine, Is seen about soon after nine, Like glow-worm doomed at night to shine? The Proctor. Who was it when I _doused a glim_, Dispatched to catch me bull-dog Jem, And _begged_ that I would _call_ on him? The Proctor. Who was it too, when sporting hat, On Queen’s bridge rails one night I sat, Just asked my name――no more than that? The Proctor. Who was it, when a row began, Between the Snobs and Gownsmen ran, And seized me, as I floored a man? The Proctor. And when I bribed with half-a-dollar The bull-dog to let go my collar, Who was it ran, and beat me hollow? The Proctor.