These, for my own sake, I’d destroy; But for the world’s, and every one’s, I’d hoe up Mrs. G--’s two sons, And Mrs. B--’s big little boy, Call’d only by herself an “only joy.” As Mr. Irving’s chapel’s not too full, Himself alone I’d pull-- But for the peace of years that have to run, I’d make the Lord Mayor’s a perpetual station, And put a period to rotation, By rooting up all Aldermen but one,-- These are but hints what good might thus be done! But ah! I fear the public good Is little by the public understood,-- For instance--if with flint, and steel, and tinder, Great Swing, for once a philanthropic man Proposed to throw a light upon thy plan, No doubt some busy fool would hinder His burning all the Foundling to a cinder. Or, if the Lord Mayor, on an Easter Monday, That wine and bun-day, Proposed to poison all the little Blue-coats Before they died by bit or sup, Some meddling Marplot would blow up, Just at the moment critical, The economy political Of Saving their fresh yellow plush and new coats. Equally ’twould be undone, Suppose the Bishop of London, On that great day In June or May, When all the large small family of charity, Brown, black, or carroty, Walk in their dusty parish shoes, In too, too many two-and-twos, To sing together till they scare the walls Of old St. Paul’s, Sitting in red, grey, green, blue, drab, and white, Some say a gratifying sight, Tho’ I think sad--but that’s a schism-- To witness so much pauperism-- Suppose, I say, the Bishop then, to make In this poor overcrowded world more room, Proposed to shake Down that immense extinguisher, the dome-- Some humane Martin in the charity _Gal_-way I fear would come and interfere, Save beadle, brat, and overseer, To walk back in their parish shoes, In too, too many two-and-twos, Islington--Wapping--or Pall Mall way! Thus people hatch’d from goose’s egg, Foolishly think a pest a plague, And in its face their doors all shut, On hinges oil’d with cajeput-- Drugging themselves with drams well spiced and cloven, And turning pale as linen rags At hoisting up of yellow flags, While you and I are crying “Orange Boven!” Why should we let precautions so absorb us, Or trouble shipping with a quarantine-- When if I understand the thing you mean, We ought to _import_ the Cholera Morbus! [Illustration: FANCY PORTRAIT--MR MALTHUS.] A GOOD DIRECTION.