A letter—­and free—­bring it here,
    I have no correspondent who franks. 
  No! yes! can it be?  Why, my dear,
    ’Tis our glorious, our Protestant Bankes. 
  “Dear sir, as I know you 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,
    That the Ministers fully design
  To suppress each cathedral and college,
    And eject every learned divine. 
  To assist this 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 furnish’d with relics and vermin,
  Will follow, Lord Westmoreland fears,
    To effect what their chiefs may determine. 
  Lollards’ tower, good authorities say,
    Is again fitting up as a prison;
  And a wood-merchant told me to-day
    ’Tis a wonder how faggots 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,
    Sore wounded with horror and pity;
  So I flew, with all possible speed,
    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,
  And assailed him with scandalous stories,
    Till the coach for the voters was ready. 
  That coach might be well called a casket
    Of learning and brotherly love: 
  There were parsons in boot and in basket;
    There were parsons below and above.

  There were Sneaker and Griper, a pair
    Who stick to Lord Mulesby like leeches;
  A smug chaplain of plausible air,
    Who writes my Lord Goslingham’s speeches. 
  Dr. Buzz, who alone is a host,
    Who, with arguments weighty as lead,
  Proves six times a week in the Post
    That flesh somehow differs from bread.

  Dr. Nimrod, whose orthodox toes
    Are seldom withdrawn from the stirrup. 
  Dr. Humdrum, whose eloquence flows,
    Like droppings of sweet poppy syrup;
  Dr. Rosygill puffing and fanning,
    And wiping away perspiration;
  Dr. Humbug, who proved Mr. Canning
    The beast in St. John’s Revelation.

  A layman can scarce form a notion
    Of our wonderful talk on the road;
  Of the learning, the wit, and devotion,
    Which almost each syllable show’d: 
  Why, divided allegiance agrees
    So ill with our free constitution;
  How Catholics swear as they please,
    In hope of the priest’s absolution: