ABSTRACT
Hunt dated England’s ruin ‘one little year’, As time roll’d on it still was drawing near, 60But when he lost his parli’ment’ry seat,He spurious coffee made, from England’s wheat,And call’d them “Breakfast Powders, pure and wholesome’,I drank them once—they made me sick and dolesome,Perhaps my stomach had not been prepar’d 65With Spa Field’s tonics which the rest had shar’d—229He’s chang’d his course I hear—his brain’s been tacking,Instead of stoving corn, he now boils blacking.He now opposes Turner, Day and Martin,And Warren wonders what he’ll next be starting, 70’Tis fitting he that nation now should polish,Whose laws and sacred rights he’d fain demolish,Tried to disturb the peaceful and the free—Farewell, dear Hunt, I’ve had enough of thee! Hail, Corporal Cobbett, with thy Register, 75By bullying, here thou thought’st to make a stir,But when thy stern pugnacity fell through,Thy Trans-Atlantic trip thou thought’st would do,That land thou hads’t so lauded ‘Great and Free’,Would not be dup’d or humbugg’d long by thee, 80So back thou turn’dst thy course, for England roams,And didst import to us great Tom Payne’s bones—Grand patriot, who to favor this emporium,Has rifled Hell, and plunder’d Pandemonium.Pity that Lucifer had spar’d such cargo, 85What not on both have laid a strict embargo?But had thy prophecy been put in force,Thou here hads’t had a frizzling of course,For with thy tongue and pen thou spokest out bold,‘If e’er the Bank of England paid in gold, 90In Smithfield they might quickly get a fire on,And frizzle Cobbett on a huge grid-iron.’The time is come, the grid-iron must defeat thee,And Radicals, in wrath, they swear they’ll eat thee!They’ll send about the country various messengers, 95And keep the fire up with thy factious Registers. Wooler, thy Dwarf is blacker than thyself—They lay at large, unread, on every shelf—Take to thy types, thy cases and thy press,Reform thy morbid stuff, and publish less— 100Let the last Dwarf, that ever sees the light,Review my volume, and what’s wrong set right,Say what thou lik’st I glory in a rumpus,I’ll meet thee, Dwarf, at any point o’ th’ compass—I’m but a bumpkin, and ’tis fit thou know it, 105A sort of driveling, whining, small beer poet,Who tells thee as a friend, thy Dwarf’s not read,230The Whigs are turn’d—the Radicals are dead,Smile, smile! great Minister, the work is thine—Thy power to party thou dids’t ne’er confine, 110But Catholic, Churchman, Tory, Whig, Dissenter,Thou heardst them all, and serv’dst them at a ventureThou thus disarm’dst their malice, wonst their hearts—We’ve not a Radical in all these parts,Each to a man will toast the Constitution, 115Will damn the Radicals and Revolution—E’en Colonel Starvegut, Little Woolton’s dread,Seeks refuge for his basilistian head,Forbears to teaze the Mercury with letters,Learns to be humble, and respect his betters, 120Devotes his services among his neighbours,Their fines remunerate his ardent labours,Instead of preaching politics profound,His farming yard he’s made the parish pound;Instead of charging foes, this man of metal 125Levys contributions on the cattleWhich stray along the lane without a guard,The fines he levys are his sweet reward.When cattle see him now, they’ll fly like Tartars,Which gives him leisure to attend the carters; 130Blame not his taste, or blush, or frown, or scoff it,He makes their fines produce an equal profit,He’s much belov’d—his neighbours are so civil,They think no sin to wish him at the devil. Some time ago, I think ’twas in September, 135He offer’d to become a county member,The country round was all in arms to send him,With ev’ry pow’r and influence they could lend him,Swore they’d return him, or they’d never rest—This feeling breath’d and glow’d in ev’ry breast, 140I thought it paradoxical and strange,Or ’mongst his neighbours there was wrought a change,And ask’d a man more eager than the rest,“Why all this ardour?’ when he thus confess’d:We, therefore, wish him up in Parli’ment, 145Our reasons for it, sir, are plain and clear,When he’s in Parli’ment, he’ll not be here!’231This said, with loud huzza he join’d the throng,And Colonel Starvegut dwelt on ev’ry tongue. He searches Pedlars for their hawking license— 150The females say, of honor he’s a nice sense,For when to filiate brats it is their lot,He claims the time, the place, and how begot;E’en plural lovers add not to their sins,He’ll summon both, for fear she should have twins— 155To Publicans he proves a sore tormentor,He’ll list to Scandal’s vile and base inventor:One case remains still freshly on my mind,’Twill show in Honor’s cause he’s just and kind:—A road-side house an aged couple kept, 160Their ale was good, their hearth was neatly swept;They toil’d to rear their children, various ways,And here in peace they hop’d to end their days;Their boys were growing up and gone to trade,They’d but one daughter—she, a lovely maid, 165Kept clean the house and waited on each guest—Her parents saw her charms, and felt most blestTo see their girl, without a blot or stain,Supply each want—the village rang her fame.One day, a blackguard blacksmith enter’d, drunk, 170For fraud or dissipation, none was sunkSo deep, so infamous—the country knewHis fraud and knavery, and his friends were few;Thus, drunk and money-less, he ask’d for drink—It was refus’d, as any one may think, 175He tried to gain his point by threats of force,By oaths, abuse, and most obscene discourse;The old man, lame, and tottering under years,Could not endure to have his daughter’s earsPolluted by such language as he us’d, 180Himself insulted, and his wife abus’d,The old man’s blood, it rush’d into his veins,He makes an effort, and his right maintains;To see his house from such a ruffian freed,They struggle hard,—at length he did succeed 185To push the ruffian from his peaceful door,Then sank exhausted—strength could yield no more!The trap was set, the bait it had been taken,232He goes to Colonel Starvegut,—peace was shaken!He was the justice, he must judge the case; 190Now, on the road, he’d much abus’d his face,And said Old Richard thus had us’d him ill,’Twas all believ’d, and Starvegut took his fillOf vengeance—for he had the nicest senseOf ganting justice!—hearing no defence! 195He stopp’d the licence, and he stopp’d their trade—(Thank God, there now a better law is made,No justice can, without good reasons giving,Withold a licence, and deprive our living.) Here is a guardian of our country’s rights, 200Its favors, with ingratitude requites!He prates to Canning, with his vile effront’ry,Who is himself the pest and scourge o’ th’ country!Thou askst Reform, too,—thou! thou silly elf,Learn to be honest, and reform thyself! 205Thou’lt be respected then, where now, thou’rt hated,As sure as this is truth, which I’ve related!I’ve much more matter, be it understood,Which ne’er shall see the light, if thou’lt be good.O! George, thy ministry’s put all to rights! 210Thy speaking portrait now my eye delights!’Tis treasur’d by me, dearly as my kin—We’ll never part, (I’d think it were a sin)Whilst I’ve a house or room to hang it in,But with thy friends, I’ll laugh, I’ll drink, I’ll sing, 215Toast George, our Minister—and George, our King!
