1832.

What a pleasing contrivance! how aptly devised

  'Twixt tar and magnolias to puzzle one's noses!

And how the tar-barrels must all be surprised

  To find themselves seated like "Love among roses!"

What a pity we can't, by precautions like these,

  Clear the air of that other still viler infection;

That radical pest, that old whiggish disease,

  Of which cases, true-blue, are in every direction.

Stead of barrels, let's light up an Auto da Fe

  Of a few good combustible Lords of "the Club;"

They would fume in a trice, the Whig cholera away,

  And there's Bucky would burn like a barrel of bub.

How Roden would blaze! and what rubbish throw out!

  A volcano of nonsense in active display;

While Vane, as a butt, amidst laughter, would spout

  The hot nothings he's full of, all night and all day.

And then, for a finish, there's Cumberland's Duke,—

  Good Lord, how his chin-tuft would crackle in air!

Unless (as is shrewdly surmised from his look)

  He's already bespoke for combustion elsewhere.

[1] The Marquis of Hertford's Fête.—From dread of cholera his Lordship had ordered tar-barrels to be burned in every direction.