And though the drug seem somewhat baleful
Give cach a dose of half a pailful;

Then thank them not to make wry faces,

For mild catharticks suit their cases.

Dash at them nitrate, hight argentum,
And tell them, though it does torment 'em,
That papists say that purgatory

Is but a passport into glory.

Just so, old Satan was quite merry,'

26

When erst, in Heaven, he rais'd old Harry ;
With jokes and cannon, in terrorem,

He march'd and drove 'em all before him.

26 Just so, old Satan, was quite merry.

So said Milton, Paradise Lost, b. vi. where the hero of the poem (whom I would propose as a model for your worships' imitation on all occasions) together with his merry companions"in gamesome mood stand scoffing," and "quips cranks," powder, grape shot, puns, blunderbuss, jokes, and cannon-balls, flash, roar, and bellow in

concert.

But I am sure that every candid critick will be disposed to acknowledge that neither Homer nor Milton ever described a battle, fraught with such sublime images and similes, as this in which we are so desperately engaged.

Stick your keen penetrating probes
Through right and left hepatick lobes;
And though you pierce the diaphragm,
You need not care a single damn.

So Indians, when a captive's taken,
And they resolve to fry his bacon,
Their savage torture to refine,
First stick him full of splinter'd pine.

In fine, your worships will contrive
To leave not one vile wretch alive,
Except those dirty sons of

Whom nature meant to dig in ditches.

But all who would not make most topping
Fellows to work in docks at Wapping,
Some way or other, sirs, I'd have ye
Give a quick passport to old Davy.

But if with all this blood and thunder,
The stubborn blockheads won't knock undef,
And e'en old women bravely wield

Their jordans like Achilles' shield;

No more with these our weapons dabble,
But raise a Lord-George-Gordon rabble;

k k

Pour on the rogues, that they be undone,

The whole mobocracy of London!

A riotous and ragged rout

From dirty lane and alley dark

From Poplar corner to Hyde Park.

Come on, brave fellows, quick surround 'em;
With canes and cudgels punch and pound 'em ;
Brick-bats and broom-sticks, all together,
Like coblers hammering sides of leather.

Brave Belcher, Lee, Mendoza, Bourke,
Let loose your fists in this great work!
Here's fine amusement for your paws,
Without the dread of police laws.

Let not one Perkinite be found
Encumbering our British ground;
But keep on pelting, banging, mauling,
Until old Beelzy's den they're all in.

And I'll be there and blow war's trumpet:
Or with death's kettle-drum I'll thump it,
Till all's "confusion, worse confounded"
Than e'er in Milton's hell abounded.

Thus, when the Spartans were in trouble,
Tyrteus help'd them through their hobble,
By singing songs, to raise their

courage.

All piping hot, as pepper-porridge.

These are the methods of " dead doing,"
By which we'll work the wizard's ruin;
And when with Satan all such trash is,
We'll rise, like Phenix, on its ashes.

Now, sirs, consent to my PETITION,
And send these varlets to perdition;
So for your weal and welfare, post hic,
Will ever pray-

CHRISTOPHER CAUSTICK.