"Hail, imp of sedition!" he cried, while he nodded His head, and the spectacles drew from his eyes, "Magnanimous pigmy! since Carlile's been quodded, We wanted some shopman, about of your size! For, though many we've had, yet unbless'd was their lot, When Murray and Sharpe with the constables came, And for want of good bail They were sent off to jail, And their mittimus sign'd with an Alderman's name." Then come, the last crown of thy toils is remaining, The greatest, the grandest that thou hast yet known; Though proud was thy task my placard-board sustaining, Still prouder to utter placards of thine own! High perch'd on that counter, where Carlile once stood, Issue torrents of blasphemy, treason, and shame, While snug in your box, Well secur'd with two locks, We'll defy them to get little Waddington's name. "THE YOUNG MAY MOON." (A PARODY.) The Old Whig Club is meeting, Duke, 'Tis now the time for eating, Duke, How sweet to joke, To sing and smoke, While these foolish men stand treating, Duke! Then harangue, and not in vain, my Duke, At them again and again, my Duke! The best of all ways To speak in these days, Is to steal a few thoughts from Tom Paine, my Duke! Now all the Whigs are sleeping, Duke, But the mob, through the casement peeping, Duke, At you and your star, Which we really are Surpris'd at your meanness in keeping, Duke! Go home, your task is done, my Duke, The watchmen's boxes shun, my Duke, Or, in watching the flight Of traitors by night, They may happen to take you for one, my Duke! DISAPPOINTMENT. Ye Aldermen! list to my lay-- Oh, list, ere your bumpers ye fill-- Her Majesty's dead!--lack-a-day! She remember'd me not in her will. Oh, folly! oh baneful ill-luck! That I ever to court her begun; She was Queen, and I could not but suck-- But she died, and poor Matty's undone! Perhaps I was void of all thought, Perhaps it was plain to foresee, That a Queen so complete would be sought By a courtier more knowing than me. But self-love each hope can inspire, It banishes _wisdom_ the while; And I thought she would surely admire My countenance, whiskers, and smile. She is dead though, and I am undone! Ye that witness the woes I endure, Oh let me instruct you to shun What I cannot instruct you to cure: Beware how you loiter in vain Amid nymphs of a higher degree; It is not for me to explain How fair and how fickle they be.