I have always stuck close, like the rest of my tribe, And physick’d my patient as long as he’d pay; And I say, when I’m ask’d to advise or prescribe, “You must wait till I’m call’d in a regular way.” Old England has grown rather sickly of late, For Russell’s reduced her almost to a shade; And I’ve honestly told him, for nights in debate, He’s a quack that should never have follow’d the trade. And, Lord! how he fumes, and exultingly cries, “Were you in my place, Pill, pray what would you say?” But I only reply, “If I am to advise, I shall wait till I’m call’d in a regular way.” It’s rather “too bad,” if an ignorant elf, Who has caught a rich patient ’twere madness to kill, Should have all the credit, and pocket the pelf, Whilst you are requested to furnish the skill. No! no! amor patriæ’s a phrase I admire, But I own to an amor that stands in its way; And if England should e’er my assistance require, She must— A man thumbs his nose at another man who is pointing towards a building on fire. “WAIT TILL I’M CALL’D IN A REGULAR WAY.” ON DITS OF THE CLUBS. Peter Borthwich has expressed his determination—not to accept of the speakership of the House of Commons. C.M. Westmacott has announced his intention of not joining the new administration; in consequence of which serious defection, he asserts that Sir Robert Peel will be unable to form a cabinet. “You have heard,” said his Grace of Buckingham, to Lord Abinger, a few evenings ago, “how scandalously Peel and his crew have treated me—they have actually thrown me overboard. A man of my weight, too!” “That was the very objection, my Lord,” replied the rubicund functionary. “Their rotten craft could not carry a statesman of your ponderous abilities. Your dead weight would have brought them to the bottom in five minutes.” [pg 54] THE REJECTED ADDRESS OF THE MELANCHOLY WHIGS. Alas! that poor old Whiggery should have been so silly as to go a-wooing. Infirm and tottering as he is, it was the height of insanity. Down he dropped on his bended knees before the object of his love; out he poured his touching addresses, lisped in the blandest, most persuasive tones; and what was his answer? Scoffs, laughs, kicks, rejection! Even Johnny Russell’s muse availed not, though it deserved a better fate. It gained him a wife, but could not win the electors. Our readers will discover the genius of the witty author of “Don Carlos” in the address, which, though rejected, we in pity immortalise in PUNCH. Loved friends—kind electors, once more we are here To beg your sweet voices—to tell you our deeds. Though our Budget is empty, we’ve got—never fear— A long full privy purse, to stand bribing and feeds. For, oh! we are out-and-out Whigs—thorough Whigs! Then, shout till your throttles, good people, ye crack; Hurrah! for the troop of sublime “Thimble-rigs!” Hurrah! for the jolly old Downing-street pack. What we’ve done, and will do for you, haply you’ll ask: