Captain Rock In London. Letter From The Captain To Terry Alt, Esq.[1]

Here I am, at headquarters, dear Terry, once more,     Deep in Tory designs, as I've oft been before:     For, bless them! if 'twasn't for this wrong-headed crew,     You and I, Terry Alt, would scarce know what to do;     So ready they're always, when dull we are growing,     To set our old concert of discord a-going,     While Lyndhurst's the lad, with his Tory-Whig face,     To play in such concert the true double-base.     I had feared this old prop of my realm was beginning     To tire of his course of political sinning,     And, like Mother Cole, when her heyday was past,     Meant by way of a change to try virtue at last.     But I wronged the old boy, who as staunchly derides     All reform in himself as in most things besides;     And, by using two faces thro' life, all allow,     Has acquired face sufficient for any-thing now.     In short, he's all right; and, if mankind's old foe,     My "Lord Harry" himself--who's the leader, we know,     Of another red-hot Opposition below--     If that "Lord," in his well-known discernment, but spares     Me and Lyndhurst, to look after Ireland's affairs,     We shall soon such a region of devilment make it,     That Old Nick himself for his own may mistake it.     Even already--long life to such Bigwigs, say I,     For, as long as they flourish, we Rocks cannot die--     He has served our right riotous cause by a speech     Whose perfection of mischief he only could reach;     As it shows off both his and my merits alike,     Both the swell of the wig and the point of the pike;     Mixes up, with a skill which one cant but admire,     The lawyer's cool craft with the incendiary's fire,     And enlists, in the gravest, most plausible manner,     Seven millions of souls under Rockery's banner!     Oh Terry, my man, let this speech never die;     Thro' the regions of Rockland, like flame, let it fly;     Let each syllable dark the Law-Oracle uttered     By all Tipperary's wild echoes be muttered.     Till naught shall be heard, over hill, dale or flood,     But "You're aliens in language, in creed and in blood;"     While voices, from sweet Connemara afar,     Shall answer, like true Irish echoes, "We are!"     And, tho' false be the cry, and the sense must abhor it,     Still the echoes may quote Law authority for it,     And naught Lyndhurst cares for my spread of dominion     So he, in the end, touches cash "for the opinion."     But I've no time for more, my dear Terry, just now,     Being busy in helping these Lords thro' their row.     They're bad hands at mob-work, but once they begin,     They'll have plenty of practice to break them well in.