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THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN'S TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE.
AN ELECTION BALLAD.
As I sate down to breakfast in state,
Came a rap
that almost beat the door in.
I laid down my basin of tea,
And Betty ceased spreading the toast,
"As sure as a gun, sir," said she,
"That must be the knock of the post."
A letter and free-bring it here
I have no correspondent who franks.
No! Yes! Can it be? Why, my dear,
"Dear sir, as I know your desire
That the Church should receive due protection,
I humbly presume to require
Your aid at the Cambridge election.
"It has lately been brought to my knowledge,
To suppress each cathedral and college,
To assist his detestable scheme
Three nuncios from Rome are come over; They left Calais on Monday_by steam, And landed to dinner at Dover.
"An army of grim Cordeliers,
Well furnished with relics and vermin, Will follow, Lord Westmoreland fears, To effect what their chiefs may determine. Lollard's bower, good authorities say, Is again fitting up for a prison; And a wood-merchant told me to-day 'Tis a wonder how fagots have risen.
"The finance scheme of Canning contains A new Easter-offering tax;
And he means to devote all the gains
To a bounty on thumb-screws and racks. Your living, so neat and compact
Pray, don't let the news give you pain!—
Is promised, I know for a fact,
To an olive-faced Padre from Spain."
I read, and I felt my heart bleed,
To our Protestant champion's committee. True gentlemen, kind and well-bred!
No fleering! no distance! no scorn! They asked after my wife who is dead, And my children who never were born.
They then, like high-principled Tories,
Called our Sovereign unjust and unsteady,
There were parsons in boot and in basket;
There were Sneaker and Griper, a pair
Who writes my Lord Goslingham's speeches. Dr. Buzz, who alone is a host,
Who, with arguments weighty as lead,
Dr. Nimrod, whose orthodox toes
Are seldom withdrawn from the stirrup;
A layman can scarce form a notion
So ill with our free constitution;
How the Bishop of Norwich had bartered
We were all so much touched and excited
And in tones, which each moment grew louder,
Thus from subject to subject we ran,
From that time I remember no more.
We were rumbling o'er Trumpington stones.
STAY, Madonna stay; 'Tis not the dawn of day
That marks the skies with yonder opal streak:
Then press thy lips to mine,
O sleep, Madonna! sleep;
O'er fancy's vanished dream,
O wake, Madonna! wake;
Is dappled o'er with amber flakes of light;
And every trickling rill
In golden threads leaps down from yonder height.
O fly, Madonna ! fly,
Lest day and envy spy
What only love and night may safely know:
Lest those who hate us hear
The sounds of thy light footsteps as they go.