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And one may be hung up on t'other, henceforth, Just to show what such Captains and Chanc'llors were worth.

But we must not despair — ev'n already Hope sees
You're about, my bold Baron, to kick up a breeze
Of the true baffling sort, such as suits me and you,
Who have box'd the whole compass of party right

And care not one farthing, as all the world knows,
So we but raise the wind, from what quarter it blows,
Forgive me, dear Lord, that thus rudely I dare
My own small resources with thine to compare:
Not ev❜n Jerry Didler, in "raising the wind," durst
Compete, for one instant, with thee, my dear Lynd-

But, hark, there s a shot! some parsonic practi


No merely a bran-new Rebellion Commissioner
The Courts having now, with true law erudition,
Put even Rebellion itself "in commission."

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As seldom, in this way, I'm any man's debtor,
I'll just pay my shot, and then fold up this letter.
In the mean time, hurrah for the Tories and Rocks
Hurrah for the parsons who fleece well their flocks!
Hurrah for all mischief in all ranks and spheres,
And, above all, hurrah for that dear House of Peers



HERE I am, at head-quarters, dear Terry, once more,

Deep in Tory designs, as I've oft been before:For, bless them! if 'twasn't for this wrong-headed


You and I, Terry Alt, would scarce know what to do;

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So ready they're always, when dull we are growing, To set our old concert of discord a-going,

While Lyndhurst's the lad, with his Tory-Whig face,

To play, in such concert, the true double-base.

I had fear'd this old prop of my realm was begin.


To tire of his course of political sinning,

And, like Mother Cole, when her heyday was past, Meant, by way of a change, to try virtue at last. But I wrong'd the old boy, who as staunchly de rides

All reform in himself as in most things besides;
And, by using two faces through life, all allow,
Has acquir'd face sufficient for any thing now.

The subordinate officer or lieutenant of Captain Rock.

In short, he's all right; and, if mankind's old foe, My "Lord Harry" himself- who's the leader, we


Of another red-hot Opposition, below

If that "Lord," in his well-known discernment, but


Me and Lyndhurst, to look after Ireland's affairs, We shall soon such a region of devilment make it, That Old Nick himself for his own may mistake it.

Ev'n already long life to such Big-wigs, say I,
For, as long as they flourish, we Rocks cannot die
He has serv'd our right riotous cause by a speech
Whose perfection of mischief he only could reach;
As it shows off both his and my merits alike,
Both the swell of the wig, and the point of the pike;
Mixes up, with a skill which one can't but admire,
The lawyer's cool craft with the' incendiary's fire,
And enlists, in the gravest, most plausible manner,
Seven millions of souls under Rockery's banner!

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Oh Terry, my man, let this speech never die;
Through the regions of Rockland, like flame, let it fly;
Let each syllable dark the Law-Oracle utter'd
By all Tipperary's wild echoes be mutter'd,

Till nought shall be heard, over hill, dale, or flood, But "You're aliens in language, in creed, and in blood;"

While voices, from sweet Connemara afar,

shall answer like true Irish echoes, “We are!”

And, though false be the cry, and though sense must abhor it,

Still the' echoes may quote Law authority for it, And nought Lyndhurst cares for my spread of dominion

So he, in the end, touches cash "for the' opinion."

But I've no time for more, my dear Terry, just now, Being busy in helping these Lords through their row. They're bad hands at mob-work, but, once they begin,

They'll have plenty of practice to break them well in.





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