Memorabilia Of Last Week.

A poem by Thomas Moore

MONDAY, MARCH 13, 1826.

The Budget--quite charming and witty--no hearing,
For plaudits and laughs, the good things that were in it;--
Great comfort to find, tho' the speech isn't cheering,
That all its gay auditors were every minute.

What, still more prosperity!--mercy upon us,
"This boy'll be the death of me"--oft as, already,
Such smooth Budgeteers have genteelly undone us,
For Ruin made easy there's no one like Freddy.


Much grave apprehension exprest by the Peers,
Lest--calling to life the old Peachums and Lockitts--
The large stock of gold we're to have in three years,
Should all find its way into highwaymen's pockets![1]


Little doing--for sacred, oh Wednesday, thou art
To the seven-o'-clock joys of full many a table--
When the Members all meet, to make much of that part,
With which they so rashly fell out in the Fable.

It appeared, tho', to-night, that--as church-wardens yearly,
Eat up a small baby--those cormorant sinners.
The Bankrupt Commissioners, bolt very nearly
A moderate-sized bankrupt, tout chaud, for their dinners![2]

Nota bene--a rumor to-day, in the city,
"Mr. Robinson just has resigned"--what a pity!

The Bulls and the Bears all fell a sobbing,
When they heard of the fate of poor Cock Robin:
While thus, to the nursery tune, so pretty,
A murmuring Stock-dove breathed her ditty:--

Alas, poor Robin, he crowed as long
And as sweet as a prosperous Cock could crow;
But his note was small and the gold-finch's song
Was a pitch too high for Robin to go.
Who'll make his shroud?

"I," said the Bank, "tho' he played me a prank,
"While I have a rag, poor Rob shall be rolled in't,
"With many a pound I'll paper him round,
"Like a plump rouleau--without the gold in it."

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