Gold, in this reign, he said, had fail’d (For gold such patriots ever rail’d!) Your flimsy notes, he cried, bely a King: Old England was another thing, When her great Monarch had a mint, And stamp’d an image of himself, the money of the World! The gaping mob admire the lofty sounds. “Burdett and Bullion!” all the street rebounds: With ravish’d ears The Bar’net hears, Affects to rouse The Commons House, And wake the torpid Peers. The muse of Cobbett then extoll’d the drabs and rogues, Whom Cold-bath prison disembogues: From them the Bar’nets honours flow Salt-box play, and whistle blow! Deck’d with St. Giles’s graces, They shew their greasy faces. They come! stop, salt-box! whistle, cease to blow! Cold-bath prison disembogues Glorious food for discontent: Any grievance is a treasure, A patriot’s instrument and pleasure; Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure, Sweet a charge in Parliament. Swell’d with the puff, Sir Frank grew vain, Spoke all his speeches o’er again, And thrice he damned the Ministers, and thrice the war in Spain. Cobbett[36] saw the madness rise, His open mouth, his rolling eyes, And, while he heaven and earth defied, Chang’d the tune, and check’d his pride. He chose an awkward story, To damp his blazing glory: He sang this chief, so fond of pow’r, With notable disgrace, Taken, taken, taken, taken, Taken by the Speaker’s mace, And caged within the Tower: Afraid at his return to meet Th’ expectant rabble in the street, He skulks incog to Piccadilly―― Did ever patriot look so silly? Long, long, and longer grows the hero’s face: He meditates, in sullen mood, On fickle popularity: He’d blush, if blush reformer could, And lets the toast go by! * * * * * The remainder of this parody refers to political events of little interest to modern readers. It is taken from _Posthumous Parodies_, an anonymous collection of poems having a strong Tory bias, published in London by John Miller, 1814. ―――― COMMEMORATION DAY. Commemoration day: a day devoted to prayers and _good living_, _i.e._, feasting. “_Who leads a good life is sure to live well._”――_Old Song._ The following Ode on a College Feast Day, will hardly be read with dry _lips_, or _mouths_ that do not _water_. Whoever was the author of it, he certainly appears to have been a man of taste. I. Hark! heard ye not yon footsteps dread, That shook the hall with thund’ring tread? With eager haste The Fellows pass’d,[37] Each intent on direful work, High lifts his mighty blade, and points his deadly fork.