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Dear Lyndhurst,–you’ll pardon my making thus free,–
But form is all fudge ‘twixt such “comrogues” as we,
Who, whate’er the smooth views we, in public, may drive at,
Have both the same praiseworthy object, in private–
Namely, never to let the old regions of riot,
Where Rock hath long reigned, have one instant of quiet,
But keep Ireland still in that liquid we’ve taught her
To love more than meat, drink, or clothing–hot water.

All the difference betwixt you and me, as I take it,
Is simply, that you make the law and I break it;
And never, of big-wigs and small, were there two
Played so well into each other’s hands as we do;
Insomuch, that the laws you and yours manufacture,
Seem all made express for the Rock-boys to fracture.
Not Birmingham’s self–to her shame be it spoken–
E’er made things more neatly contrived to be broken;
And hence, I confess, in this island religious,
The breakage of laws–and of heads is prodigious.

And long may it thrive, my Ex-Bigwig, say I,–
Tho’, of late, much I feared all our fun was gone by;
As, except when some tithe-hunting parson showed sport,
Some rector–a cool hand at pistols and port,
Who “keeps dry” his powder, but never himself—
One who, leaving his Bible to rust on the shelf,
Sends his pious texts home, in the shape of ball-cartridges,
Shooting his “dearly beloved,” like partridges;
Except when some hero of this sort turned out,
Or, the Exchequer sent, flaming, its tithe-writs[1] about–
A contrivance more neat, I may say, without flattery,
Than e’er yet was thought of for bloodshed and battery;
So neat, that even I might be proud, I allow,
To have bit off so rich a receipt for a row;–
Except for such rigs turning up, now and then,
I was actually growing the dullest of men;
And, had this blank fit been allowed to increase,
Might have snored myself down to a Justice of Peace.
Like you, Reformation in Church and in State
Is the thing of all things I most cordially hate.
If once these curst Ministers do as they like,
All’s o’er, my good Lord, with your wig and my pike,
And one may be hung up on t’other, henceforth,
Just to show what such Captains and Chancellors were worth.

But we must not despair–even already Hope sees
You’re about, my bold Baron, to kick up a breeze
Of the true baffling sort, such as suits me and you,
Who have boxt the whole compass of party right thro’,
And care not one farthing, as all the world knows,
So we but raise the wind, from what quarter it blows.
Forgive me, dear Lord, that thus rudely I dare
My own small resources with thine to compare:
Not even Jerry Diddler, in “raising the wind,” durst
Complete, for one instant, with thee, my dear Lyndhurst.

But, hark, there’s a shot!–some parsonic practitioner?
No–merely a bran-new Rebellion Commissioner;
The Courts having now, with true law erudition,
Put even Rebellion itself “in commission.”
As seldom, in this way, I’m any man’s debtor,
I’ll just pay my shot and then fold up this letter.
In the mean time, hurrah for the Tories and Rocks!
Hurrah for the parsons who fleece well their flocks!
Hurrah for all mischief in all ranks and spheres,
And, above all, hurrah for that dear House of Peers!

NOTE:
[1] Exchequer tithe processes, served under a commission of rebellion.–Chronicle.