That you alone, my Billy,

Were her state Cecisbeo.

There is a frightful rumour

(I giv't as it exists)

That the doctors will inhume her

Lest the resurrectionists

A "subject" make our Queen, sir,
(Think what a ruffian crew!)
And for a "stiff-un" Burke her
As the body-snatchers do.*

'Tis our royal master's wishes,

When these presents come to hand, That you cause all plates and dishes

To be smash'd in Sandwich land;

And further, that you order

All his subjects, liege and true,

For to fisticuff each other

Till their hides are black and blue.

*

In conclusion-I have only

This refreshing news to tell,

* See Apendix.

That the bearer's order'd soundly
To belabour you as well,
For the King has got a notion
That sorrow's cured by blows,
So prescribes for you a potion

Of black eyes and bleeding nose.

Our monarch thinks you'd better,
When your throes of grief relax,
Write a circular dead letter,*

And seal it with black wax;

But pray, 'bove all, be careful

To charge our citizens

To stick with shells their hair full,
And rubify their chins.†

P. S.—I'm bound a postscript here to add,
Right honourable sir,

To prove to you how kindly sad

These John Bull people are.

Your brother Premier (Canning) flies

To cheer our widow'd chief,

* Vide Appendix.

† A funeral custom in prevalence among the Sandwich Islanders.

And even George the Fourth too tries

To mollify his grief.*

Memorandum-When a vessel

Can be ready got for sea,

The Queen from off her trestle

Shall be shipp'd-consign'd to thee;

And I'll invoice her A 1 at Lloyd's
By underwriters writ,

And a bill of lading shall, besides,

Be sent to Billy Pitt.t

* Vide Morning Post.

+ See Appendix.

DITHYRAMBIC.

A little claret is a dangerous go,
Drink deep or taste not of the Clos Vougeot.

"Mon medecin m'a dit souvent

Que l'abus du vin me tue,

Et me defend absolument,

De toucher une fille nue.

Faut-il renoncer au bon vin,
A ma Brunette, à ma Blonde-
Adieu, Monsieur, mon Medecin,
Je pars pour un autre monde."

HASTE, give me the purple-robed goblet, whilst newly
Its brim owns the dew left by woman's warm lip,
'Twere luscious to quaff from a chalice so holy,
Since Heav'n by its angel, hath hallow'd the sip.

As zeal in devotion all mankind is fitting,

And wine is the latch-key that opens the heart, Let's quickly unlock it, in sooth there's no witting, But our's may reveal the episcopal art.

Full surely we know that our spirituous pastors

Regard their libations as orthodox sips,

And why should not we, like our clerical masters,

The doctrine imbibe with our laity lips?

Then pledge the full bowl, since the grape-juice is sainted,

So deeply we'll fathom its pious contents,

That e'en were we all with rank heresy tainted,

We'd rise from the board-a new version of saints.*

No pæan or lay that is treasured in story

Can mate with our chorus for ritual glee,

And our grace-cup shall pass to the ever-bright glory

Of the Hierarch who first introduc'd "three times three."

So hand me the purple robed goblet, whilst newly Its brim owns the dew left by woman's warm lip, "Twere luscious to quaff from a chalice so holy,

Since Heav'n, by its angel, hath hallow'd the sip.

* Should Mr. Spencer P-1, M. P. be one of the bibacious party, that would of course make one "saint" more.