An Expostulation To Lord King.

        "quem das finem, rex magne, laborum?"
        VERGIL.


1826.


How can you, my Lord, thus delight to torment all
    The Peers of the realm about cheapening their corn,[1]
When you know, if one hasn't a very high rental,
    'Tis hardly worth while being very high born?

Why bore them so rudely, each night of your life,
    On a question, my Lord, there's so much to abhor in?
A question-like asking one, "How is your wife?"--
    At once so confounded domestic and foreign.

As to weavers, no matter how poorly they feast;
    But Peers and such animals, fed up for show,
(Like the well-physickt elephant, lately deceased,)
    Take a wonderful quantum of cramming, you know.

You might see, my dear Baron, how bored and distrest
    Were their high noble hearts by your merciless tale,
When the force of the agony wrung even a jest
    From the frugal Scotch wit of my Lord Lauderdale![2]

Bright Peer! to whom Nature and Berwickshire gave
    A humor endowed with effects so provoking,
That when the whole House looks unusually grave
    You may always conclude that Lord Lauderdale's joking!

And then, those unfortunate weavers of Perth--
    Not to know the vast difference Providence dooms
Between weavers of Perth and Peers of high birth,
    'Twixt those who have heirlooms, and those who've but looms!

"To talk now of starving!"--as great Athol said[3]--
    (And the nobles all cheered and the bishops all wondered,)
"When some years ago he and others had fed
    "Of these same hungry devils about fifteen hundred!"

It follows from hence--and the Duke's very words
    Should be publisht wherever poor rogues of this craft are--
That weavers, once rescued from starving by Lords,
    Are bound to be starved by said Lords ever after.

When Rome was uproarious, her knowing patricians
    Made "Bread and the Circus" a cure for each row;
But not so the plan of our noble physicians,
    "No Bread and the Treadmill,"'s the regimen now.

So cease, my dear Baron of Ockham, your prose,
    As I shall my poetry--neither convinces;
And all we have spoken and written but shows,
    When you tread on a nobleman's corn,[4]
how he winces.