All, all, gentle folks, you shall presently see. Off your sugar we’ll take just one penny a cask! Only adding a shilling a pound on your tea. That’s the style for your Whigs—your reforming old Whigs! Then, shout, &c. Off your broad—think of this!—we will take—(if we can)— A whole farthing a loaf; then, when wages decline, By one-half—as they must—and you’re starving, each man In our New Poor Law Bastiles may go lodge, and go dine. That’s the plan of your Whigs—your kind-hearted, true Whigs! Then, shout, &c. Off the fine Memel timber, we’d take—if we could— All tax, ’cause ’tis used in the palace and hall; On the cottager’s, tradesman’s coarse Canada wood, We will clap such a tax as shall pay us for all. That’s the “dodge” for your Whigs—your poor-loving, true Whigs! Then, shout, &c. To free our dear brothers, the niggers, you know Twenty millions and more we have fix’d on your backs. ’Twas gammon—’twas humbug—’twas swindle! for, lo! We undo all we’ve done—we go trade in the blacks. Your humanity Whigs!—anti-slavery Whigs! Then, shout, &c. When to Office we came, full two millions in store We found safe and snug. Now, that surplus instead, Besides having spent it, and six millions more, Lo! we’re short, on the year, only two millions dead. That’s the “go” for your Whigs—your retrenching old Whigs Then, shout, &c. In a word, round the throne we’ve stuck sisters and wives, Our brothers and cousins fill bench, church, and steeple; Assist us to stick in, at least for our lives, And nicely “we’ll sarve out” Queen, Lords, ay, and People. That’s the fun for your Whigs—your bed-chamber old Whigs! Shout, shout, &c. What was the reply to this pathetic, this generous appeal? Name it not at Woburn-abbey—whisper it not at Panshanger—breathe it not in the epicurean retreat of Brocket-hall! Tears, big tears, roll down our sympathetic checks as we write it. It was simply—“Cock-a-doodle-do!” LORD JOHNNY “LICKING THE BIRSE.” Lord John Russell, on his arrival with his bride at Selkirk the other day, was invested with the burghship of that ancient town. In this ceremony, “licking the birse,” that is, dipping a bunch of shoemaker’s bristles in a glass of wine and drawing them across the mouth, was performed with all due solemnity by his lordship. The circumstance has given rise to the following jeu d’esprit, which the author, Young Ben D’Israeli, has kindly dropped into PUNCH’S mouth:— Lord Johnny, that comical dog, At trifles in politics whistles; In London he went the whole hog, At Selkirk he’s going the bristles. “Why are Sir Robert Peel and Sir James Graham like two persons with only one intellect?”—“Because there is an understanding between them.” “Why is Sir Robert Peel like a confounded and detected malefactor?”—“Because he has nothing at all to say for himself.”