]
* * * * *
THE MINISTRY'S ODE TO THE PASSIONS.
NOT BY COLLINS.
When the Whig Ministry had run,
Nor left behind a mother's son,
The Tories, at their leader's call,
Came thronging round him, one and all,
Exulting, braying, cringing, coaxing,
Expert at humbugging and hoaxing;
By turns they felt an _honest_ zeal
For private good and public weal;
Till all at once they raised such yells,
As rung in Apsley House the bells:
And as they sought snug berths to get
In Bobby Peel's new cabinet,
Each, for interest ruled the hour,
Would prove his taste for place and power.
First Follett's hand, his skill to try,
Upon the _seals_ bewilder'd laid;
But back recoil'd--he scarce knew why--
Of Lyndhurst's angry scowl afraid.
Next Stanley rush'd with frenzied air;
His eager haste brook'd no delay:
He rudely seized the _Foreign_ chair,
And bade poor Cupid trudge away.
With woeful visage Melbourne sate--
A pint of double X his grief beguiled;
And inly pondering o'er his fate,
He bade th' attendant pot-boy "draw it mild."
But thou, Sir Jamie Graham--prig;
What was thy delighted musing?
Now accepting, now refusing,
Till on the Admiralty pitch'd,
Still would that thought his speech prolong;
To gain the place for which he long had itch'd,
He call'd on Bobby still through all the song;
But ever as his sweetest theme he chose,
A sovereign's golden chink was heard at every close,
And Pollock grimly smiled, and shook his powder'd wig.
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