THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN'S TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE AN ELECTION BALLAD 1827 As I sat down to breakfast in state, Came a rap that almost beat the door in. And Betty ceased spreading the toast, "That must be the knock of the post." I have no correspondent who franks. No! Yes! Can it be? Why, my dear, That the Church should receive due protection, I humbly presume to require Your aid at the Cambridge election. "It has lately been brought to my knowledge, To suppress each cathedral and college, And eject every learned divine. 5 ΙΟ 15 20 To assist this detestable scheme Three nuncios from Rome are come over; "An army of grim Cordeliers, Well furnished with relics and vermin, "The finance scheme of Canning contains To an olive-faced Padre° from Spain." I read, and I felt my heart bleed, To our Protestant champion's committee. 25 30 They then, like high-principled Tories, Called our Sovereign unjust and unsteady, There were parsons in boot and in basket; There were Sneaker and Griper, a pair 50 55 Who writes my Lord Goslingham's speeches. 60 Dr. Buzz, who alone is a host, Who, with arguments weighty as lead, Proves six times a week in the Post That flesh somehow differs from bread. Dr. Nimrod, whose orthodox toes Are seldom withdrawn from the stirrup. And wiping away perspiration; A layman can scarce form a notion Which almost each syllable showed: 65 70 75 Why divided allegiance agrees So ill with our free constitution; How Catholics swear as they please, In hope of the priest's absolution; How the Bishop of Norwich had bartered How Papists are cased from compassion We were all so much touched and excited That the rules of politeness were slighted, And in tones, which each moment grew louder, Thus from subject to subject we ran, From that time I remember no more. We were rumbling o'er Trumpington stones. 80 85 95 100 SONG 1827 Он, stay, Madonna! stay; 'Tis not the dawn of day That marks the skies with yonder opal streak: Then press thy lips to mine, And rest upon my neck thy fervid cheek. Oh, sleep, Madonna! sleep; Leave me to watch and weep O'er the sad memory of departed joys, O'er fancy's vanished dream, O'er all that nature gives and man destroys. Oh, wake, Madonna! wake; Even now the purple lake Is dappled o'er with amber flakes of light; And every trickling rill In golden threads leaps down from yonder height. Oh, fly, Madonna! fly, Lest day and envy spy What only love and night may safely know K 5 10 15 20 |