Oh Wellington and Stephenson,
Oh morn and evening papers,
Times, Herald, Courier, Globe, and Sun,
When will ye cease our ears to stun
With these two heroes' capers?
Still "Stephenson" and "Wellington,"
The everlasting two!--
Still doomed, from rise to set of sun,
To hear what mischief one has done,
And t'other means to do:--
What bills the banker past to friends,
But never meant to pay;
What Bills the other wight intends,
As honest, in their way;--
Bills, payable at distant sight,
Beyond the Grecian kalends,
When all good deeds will come to light,
When Wellington will do what's right,
And Rowland pay his balance.
To catch the banker all have sought,
But still the rogue unhurt is;
While t'other juggler--who'd have thought?
Tho' slippery long, has just been caught
By old Archbishop Curtis;--
And, such the power of papal crook,
The crosier scarce had quivered
About his ears, when, lo! the Duke
Was of a Bull delivered!
Sir Richard Birnie doth decide
That Rowland "must be mad,"
In private coach, with crest, to ride,
When chaises could be had.
And t'other hero, all agree,
St. Luke's will soon arrive at,
If thus he shows off publicly,
When he might pass in private.
Oh Wellington, oh Stephenson,
Ye ever-boring pair,
Where'er I sit, or stand, or run,
Ye haunt me everywhere.
Tho' Job had patience tough enough,
Such duplicates would try it;
Till one's turned out and t'other off,
We Shan’ have peace or quiet.
But small's the chance that Law affords--
Such folks are daily let off;
And, 'twixt the old Bailey and the Lords,
They both, I fear, will get off.