The Queen’s Subscription25
Tune—“The Black Joke.”
Whoe’er knows St. James’s, knows where the Whigs met
In behalf of the Queen, a subscription to get,
For her Black Wig and her Character white.
By Truth and by Wisdom supported she stood—
Truth’s part play’d by Brougham, that of Wisdom by Wood—
They cursed, and they swore that she ne’er did amiss,
Though the Baron, they own’d, was so rude as to kiss
The Black Wig with the Character white.
At Brookes’s they met—but demurr’d to the call
Of producing the cash—as they had none at all
For the Black Wig and the Character white.
Coke growl’d about rents, swore the funds ought to pay;
But Baring grimaced, and Ricardo squeak’d “Nay!”
And the young ones exclaim’d, in a querulous tone,
They each had to pay for a Saint of their own,
With a Black Wig and a Character white.
But though the subscription was tardy, and they
Had nothing to give, they had plenty to say
For the Black Wig and the Character white.
Lord Tavistock stammer’d three words in her praise,
And Sefton his voice and his shoulders did raise;
And Calcraft his nose cock’d, and Grant cock’d his eye,
And hypocrite Bennet pretended to cry
For the Black Wig and her Character white.
Fitzwilliam, that reverend proselyte, rose—
(We’ll make him speak verse since he cannot speak prose)
For the Black Wig and her Character white.
“You seem,” quoth the sage, “all averse to give cash,
And, in truth, you are right—what is money but trash?”
Let’s give something better to end all these quarrels,
And raise a subscription of virtue and morals,
For the Black Wig and her Character white.
Besides, ’tis no merit one’s surplus to share,
Then let us give that which the least we can spare
To the Black Wig and her Character white.
For me I have changed all my friends at the brunt,
From Fox, Pitt, and Burke, down to Cobbett and Hunt,
As fickle in age as I was in my youth:
So freely subscribe my political truth
To the Black Wig and her Character white.
Old Tierney set down, with a sorrowful face,
The hopes of his life, all the prospects of place,
To the Black Wig and her Character white.
The message which Brougham had advised and had penn’d,
Poor Tierney had rashly advanced to defend,
And not to subscribe would be rather uncivil,
So he gives very frankly—he gives—to the Devil
The Black Wig and her Character white.
Such cheap contributions delighted the pack,
And, for once, they were ready their leaders to back,
For the Black Wig and her Character white.
Silly Billy, God bless him! subscribed all his sense;
Of loyalty Grey made a gallant expense;
The Gospels, Lord Grosvenor flung down in a boast;
And Erskine gave nobly—himself, as a toast;
For the Black Wig and her Character white.
Bald Bedford, his still balder eloquence gave;
And Blessington thought that his coup-d’œil might save
The Black Wig and her Character white.
Big Nugent bestow’d all his graces upon her,
Ned Ellice his credit, and Guildford his honour;
The Heathcotes, their sense—both the old and the young—
And Hume gave—a notice, and Lambton gave—tongue
For the Black Wig and her Character white.
By Fergusson back’d, Michael Angelo Taylor
Supposed that his statesman-like views might avail her
Black Wig and her Character white.
Charles Calvert and Hurst their gentility join;
And Grenfell was ready, his visage to coin;
And Creevy, of other donations bereft,
Subscribed all the courage that Warrender left,
To the Black Wig and her Character white.
Grave Folkstone, who once before leap’d in the dark,
Transfers his devotions from Mary Ann Clarke
To the Black Wig and her Character white.
And Wetherell and Tennyson, soi-disant Lawyers,
Would give her their fees—if they had but employers.
Scarlett offers his law and his wit too,—for Scarlett
Chimes in—as he pleasantly tell us—with Harlot
In a Black Wig and a Character white.
But some with whom nominal morals ran low,
Contrived other modes their devotion to show,
To the Black Wig and her Character white.
Burdett gave the bond he recover’d from Scott—
And Wilson the thanks in the field he had got—
And Leinster a visiting card of his rib’s—
And Foley a draft upon—Howard and Gibbs!
For the Black Wig and her Character white.
But as to the rest it were tedious to sing,
How they sacrificed love of their Country and King,
To the Black Wig and her Character white.
Such talents, such virtues, how much they surpass
Baring’s stock, Grenfell’s copper, or Lushington’s brass!
Endow’d with such treasures, who would not dispense
With the paltry account of pounds, shillings, and pence,
For the Black Wig and her Character white?
But when the great Lady was told of the kind
Of efforts the Whigs made for raising the wind
For her Black Wig and her Character white,
She rose in a fury, and roar’d out, “God-zounds!
Run, Vizard, secure me Lord Liverpool’s pounds;
Of the virtues of Whigs I have more than my share,
And their talents and truth are not worth half an hair
Of my Black Wig and my Character white.”
Sam Rogers proposed, To my Lady half dosed, To indite a fine new compo-
si - tion, In which he might greet Her Ladyship’s feet With
proof of his tuneful sub - mis-sion. Says Holland, “Sam, you’ve my per-
mis - sion;” But my Lady has no dis-po - si - tion To
have her name seen With the friends of the Queen, Or, in short, with the raff Opposition.
We don’t mean to rob
Poor Sam of his job,
But we have a shrewdish suspicion,
It will be fifteen years
Before it appears,
So painful is Sam’s parturition;
He’s not like the Northern Magician,
Who writes while he’s shooting or fishing,
So we’ll borrow Sam’s hint,
And put into print
An ode to the Whig Opposition.
There’s Tierney, the sly,
With his grey sunken eye,
Which rolls with a scowl of suspicion,
He hates all the Broughams,
And despises the Humes,
And sits with a look of contrition.
He pleads a sham indisposition,
And shirks in the House his position;
Nor can he be blamed
For feeling ashamed
To lead such a raff Opposition.
There is he whom they call
Squire Brougham of Brougham Hall,
Who would pass for a man of condition;
In blood, to be sure,
He may match Peter Moore,
But the Hall is a mere imposition;
The fellow’s a hack politician,
A tailor in all but ambition,
Who offer’d to bilk
For a gown of black silk
The Queen—and her whole Opposition.
There’s Wilson—poor Bob,
Who headed a mob,
And in consequence lost his commission,
Considers it hard,
That haranguing the Guard
Should be voted an act of sedition;
Besides, ’twas his greatest ambition
To witness one real ignition;
To shot and to danger
His skin was a stranger,
Till the day of the Park Opposition.
There’s Sefton, who drives
His ladies by fives,
In a gig of the latest edition;
Which looks like a cart
Of the Guards when they start
With their wives on a Dutch expedition:
He greases with anti-attrition—
Would his tongue had the same composition!—
For, whenever he speaks,
It hitches and squeaks
Like the drag of the Bath Opposition.
There’s little Spring Rice,
Of Newport the Vice,
Who was painted in last Exhibition,
Was ready to swear
That Limerick and Clare
Were dying from pure inanition;
But how did he mend their condition?
Did he visit those scenes of perdition?
No!—Erin was undone,
While he talk’d in London,
And smirk’d with the fat Opposition.
There’s stultified Hume,
Who (some people assume)
Is an excellent arithmetician,
Began as a Tory,—
But honour and glory
Soon gave such an ass his dismission;
Now Joe was a sort of physician,
But being no frequent practician,
For want of another
Dissected his brother,
Though the corps made a strong Opposition.
There’s the new rara avis,
The once Colonel Davis,
Now Statesman as much as Tactician,
He seems to presume
To emulate Hume,
But, in truth, there is no competition;
For Davis sold out his commission—
But Hume’s more plebeian ambition
Is cribbing the winnings
Of Constantine Jennings,
The hopes of the whole Opposition.
Lord Althorpe, who bent
His way beyond Trent
To challenge a hostile collision,
At Ferrybridge found
He might choose his own ground,
And therefore abandon’d his mission;
Then—aware of the force of derision,
He spoke on some turnpike petition,
And explain’d, without end,
How he and his friend
Return’d to rejoin Opposition.
There’s that little thing Bennet—
Once turn’d from the Senate,
On poor Tyrwhit Jones’s petition,
The quack, from whom they,
Doom’d to Botany Bay,
So justly expect manumission.
For think what would be his condition,
If laws were to have no remission;
For, if folks don’t tell fibs,
Messrs. Howard and Gibbs
Have claims on this pure Opposition.
The Grosvenor-gate fillies
May rail at Achilles,
And blush at his naked condition,
But Nugent’s tight dress,—
Which we can’t well express,—
Is, to us, a more gross exposition.
But strange are the freaks of ambition;
Which, when a man once sets his wish on,
If his head chance to fail,
He must try how his tail
Can give weight to a light Opposition.
There’s Williams and Scarlett,
Who spoke for “The Harlot,”
With airs like the Greek Rhetorician;
Williams knows some small Greek,
But Scarlett can’t speak
Plain English, without much tuition:26
In Cambridge, his great erudition
Stands as high as Lord Byron’s Politian!
“Naked feet, naked feet”
Will kick through the street
Fat Scarlett and his Opposition.
There’s Wood, who, for hops,
Goes offering to shops
An excellent new composition,
And proves that the plant,
The staple of Kent,
Is a Tory and vile imposition;
But he gets very little commission,
The folks eye his drugs with suspicion;
The profit much less is
Than getting Addresses,
Or plate from the Queen’s Opposition.
There’s Creevey, the crawler,
That under-bred brawler,
Once Clerk to the Indian Commission,
He told us himself
That the mere love of pelf
Had placed him in such a position!
A Negro exposed to vendition
Would have blush’d to have made such admission;
Yet the bird who at best
Bewrays his own nest,
Is the Phœnix of this Opposition!
If we could take part in
Debates like Dick Martin,
And venture to tell our volition,
We should certainly pray,
By night and by day,
For men in their present position.
The country has made its decision,
Which needs neither change nor revision;
May the King, of his grace,
Keep out the whole race
Of this wonderful wise Opposition!