Wreaths For The Ministers. An Anacreontic.

Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers!     Haste thee from old Brompton's bowers--     Or, (if sweeter that abode)     From the King's well-odored Road,     Where each little nursery bud     Breathes the dust and quaffs the mud.     Hither come and gayly twine     Brightest herbs and flowers of thine     Into wreaths for those who rule us,     Those who rule and (some say) fool us--     Flora, sure, will love to please     England's Household Deities![1]         First you must then, willy-nilly,     Fetch me many an orange lily--     Orange of the darkest dye     Irish Gifford can supply;--     Choose me out the longest sprig,     And stick it in old Eldon's wig.         Find me next a Poppy posy,     Type of his harangues so dozy,     Garland gaudy, dull and cool,     To crown the head of Liverpool.     'Twill console his brilliant brows     For that loss of laurel boughs,     Which they suffered (what a pity!)     On the road to Paris City.         Next, our Castlereagh to crown,     Bring me from the County Down,     Withered Shamrocks which have been     Gilded o'er to hide the green--     (Such as Headfort brought away     From Pall-Mall last Patrick's Day)[2]--     Stitch the garland thro' and thro'     With shabby threads of every hue--     And as, Goddess!--entre nous--     His Lordship loves (tho' best of men)     A little torture now and then,     Crimp the leaves, thou first of Syrens,     Crimp them with thy curling-irons.         That's enough--away, away--     Had I leisure, I could say     How the oldest rose that grows     Must be pluckt to deck Old Rose--     How the Doctor's[3] brow should smile     Crowned with wreaths of camomile.     But time presses--to thy taste     I leave the rest, so, prithee, haste!