made of pewter, I am sure our worthy Chancellor of the Exchequer will not persevere, but turn his attention to other sources of supply. I know of many, but will not reveal them, conceiving myself ill-treated in having been recently refused a small sinecure for my nephew, the secretaryship to the society for the discouragement of vice, and the promotion of religion and virtue, about to be established by Mr. Wilberforce and Lord Sidmouth at Botany Bay.
I am, Sir, yours,
TIMOTHY TINKER.
REFLECTIONS UPON CROCKERY,
SUGGESTED BY SOME RUMOURS RESPECTING THE
"T IS said, to raise the ways and means,
A tax on tea-pots and tureens,
Lurks in the corner of the budget
Sing Muse, what classes most will grudge it!
Eaters of turtle soup will grumble,
As through the "deep profound" they fumble
For calipash and calipee-
But folks must pay for luxury.
But, oh ye milliners! who toil
Through cat-gut, tiffany, and foil,
Ye maids (I speak porticé)
Of every varying degree,
Who breakfast, dine, and sup on tea
you I feel affliction true
Tea-pots are every thing to you !-
And shall the Minister attack
This source of aliment and clack?
Rather than this, let scandal die,
And femmes de chambre cease to pry;
Rather than this, quit tales impure,
And read the works of Hannah More!-
But if the mischief ended here,
I would not drop one sorrowing tear-
I cannot hide the direful news!
The Chancellor has further views!
REFLECTIONS UPON CROCKERY.
The fact I'm striving to disclose,
I had from Croker and from Rose-
Yorke swears 't is true, and so they say
Does that thin peer Lord Castlereagh.
Lord Eldon hesitated long,
First deem'd it right, then thought it wrong;
But Redesdale calm'd the tumult wild,
And Liverpool look'd up and smil'd.
O woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please;
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made;
My guardian angel stand confest,
For pain and anguish wring my breast!-
The rankling secret festers there!
Oh, teach me, sweet retiring fair!
How I may plead your injur'd claim
To that which awe, and blushing shame,
Forbid my falt'ring tongue to name.
Oh, had I Fuller's matchless grace,
Or Doctor Duig'nan's placid face,
Venting his orthodoxious roar,
The bully of the scarlet whore-
Or Foster's jokes that always hit,
Or the Attorney-General's wit;
Then might I hope, with some applause,
To sing of that mysterious vase
Which, by stern Spencer dragg'd to day,
Must soon th' obnoxious impost pay.
Oh, Spencer! tender once and good,
(And used to the melting mood,")
The parent of a numerous brood,
Who all inclin'd their pretty backs
O'er what you now, inhuman, tax,
Why wilt thou raise supplies from that
Where infancy can smile and chat?
Why vent thy financiering rage
On the kind refuge of old
Calm meditation's sober friend,
The solace of our latter end!
Oh! why embarrass and perplex
Each member of that charming sex,
To whose dear tenderness we owe
All we can taste of bliss below,
Or dream of happiness above?
For love is heaven, and heaven is love!
Oh! why at each returning eve
So many gentle bosoms grieve,
Or damp the morning's genial ray
With such a double tax to pay?
Oh, Spencer Perceval, take care
Of meddling with the crockery ware!
Oh! Spencer, Spencer! dread the fate
Of Twiss, before it be too late.
Indignant potters will portray
Thy visage on the ductile clay;
While every little titt'ring miss
(In this place there is a small hiatus,)
Will call thee, Spencer, Dicky Twiss!
Thee, on whose mellifluous tongue
Enraptur'd placemen fondly hung;
Thee, fill'd with the sophistic lore
Of that great statesman now no more;
Thee, the dispenser of each grace,
Who smil'st a pension here, there nodd'st a place!
But no, it cannot be; each sex, each age
Forbid the deed-man's pride and woman's rage!
Hence! hence! I say; avaunt! unreal mockery!
Spencer will never lay a tax on crockery.
THE POOR POET'S CONFESSION.
TIME-Sunset. SCENE-A Garret in Grub Street.
Poet seated on a Joint-stool, in a desponding Mood.
DEPRECIATION OF BANK NOTES.
A being I, of earthly breed,
Of meat and drink stand more in need.
Alas! we poets seldom feed!
Why talk of laurel leaves to me?
Be mine thy fragrant leaf, O tea!
Thy fount, Pieria, though divine,
Inspires not half so well as wine!
Fools prate of Pegasus, but I
Would choose a horse to walk, not fly!
I hate your castles in the air,
And mere imaginary fare.-
Surely on earth content I'd find,
Had I but lodgings to my mind-
Some money-making scheme to follow,
And worship Plutus, not Apollo !
Gods! could I but that wish obtain,
I'd never court the Muse again!
No! spite of all her noise and strife,
I'd cut the Nine, and seek-a wife!
DEPRECIATION OF BANK NOTES.
TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING CHRONICLE.
PERMIT me, through the medium of your valuable
paper, to promulgate a discovery, at the present moment, I will venture to say, of the very first consequence, and which has eluded the observation of the battalion of pamphleteers who have been latterly scribbling on the subject-in one word, Sir, I propose, in our present dearth of gold, a coinage of Platina: this valuable metal is more ponderous than gold, and very nearly as ductile; its superiority in weight I have estimated by a series of interesting experiments, and find it exactly equal to the excess in heaviness of Mr. Glo cester Wilson's pamphlet over Sir John Sinclair's. I now merely throw out this hint for the consideration
of Members of both Houses during the recess; by the time that business commences, I shall have ready my pamphlet on this important subject, being a brief ex position of my ideas in 1136 octavo pages.
I remain, yours, sincerely,
ON THE NEW HIPPODROME IN COVENT
[From the same, April 22.]
Mutandus locus est, et diversoria nota
Præteragendus equus.
HO will say that the laws are no longer in force,
Recorded in metamorphosean fable,
Since our manager 's rais'd to a master of horse,
And our theatre sunk to a livery stable?
When beggar'd they hit on this plan, we are told,
To jockey the town, and in clover to revel;
But now they are mounted, like beggars of old,
Or Blue Beard himself, they will ride to the devil.
the centaur, sage Houyhnyhm elf!
Henceforth who will care for thy classic revivals ?
Rowe, Congreve, and Otway may sleep on the shelf;
Their brains are kick'd out by their quadruped rivals.
Though Shakspeare may frown in your hall in disdain,
You may laugh (if you can) without qualms or remorses;
He
swore all the world was a stage, and 't is plain,
No stage in the world can go on without horses.
Where'er with four legs native talent is bless'd,
The manager's patronage doubly is due;
goes twice as far, and has twice as much zest,
As where the dull rascals have only got two.
Away with the pit! turn it into a ring;
Thalia, Melpomene, joining the hoax,
Shall gallop in grand tragi-comedy swing,
While is cracking his whip and his jokes.
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