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Incantation [from The New Tragedy Of "The Brunswickers"]
by [?]

SCENE.–Penenden Plain. In the middle, a caldron boiling. Thunder.–
Enter three Brunswickers

1st Bruns.–Thrice hath scribbling Kenyon scrawled,

2d Bruns.–Once hath fool Newcastle bawled,

3d Bruns.–Bexley snores:–’tis time, ’tis time,

1st Bruns.–Round about the caldron go;
In the poisonous nonsense throw.
Bigot spite that long hath grown
Like a toad within a stone,
Sweltering in the heart of Scott,
Boil we in the Brunswick pot.

All.–Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,
Eldon, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.

2d Bruns.–Slaver from Newcastle’s quill
In the noisome mess distil,
Brimming high our Brunswick broth
Both with venom and with froth.
Mix the brains (tho’ apt to hash ill,
Being scant) of Lord Mountcashel,
With that malty stuff which Chandos
Drivels as no other man does.
Catch (i. e. if catch you can)
One idea, spick and span,
From my Lord of Salisbury,–
One idea, tho’ it be
Smaller than the “happy flea”
Which his sire in sonnet terse
Wedded to immortal verse.[1]
Tho’ to rob the son is sin,
Put his one idea in;
And, to keep it company,
Let that conjuror Winchelsea
Drop but half another there,
If he hath so much to spare.
Dreams of murders and of arsons,
Hatched in heads of Irish parsons,
Bring from every hole and corner,
Where ferocious priests like Horner
Purely for religious good
Cry aloud for Papist’s blood,
Blood for Wells, and such old women,
At their ease to wade and swim in.

All.–Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,
Bexley, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.

3d Bruns.–Now the charm begin to brew;
Sisters, sisters, add thereto
Scraps of Lethbridge’s old speeches,
Mixt with leather from his breeches,
Rinsings of old Bexley’s brains,
Thickened (if you’ll take the pains)
With that pulp which rags create,
In their middle nympha state,
Ere, like insects frail and sunny,
Forth they wing abroad as money.
There–the Hell-broth we’ve enchanted–
Now but one thing more is wanted.
Squeeze o’er all that Orange juice,
Castlereagh keeps corkt for use,
Which, to work the better spell, is
Colored deep with blood of —-,
Blood, of powers far more various,
Even than that of Januarius,
Since so great a charm hangs o’er it,
England’s parsons bow before it.

All.–Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,
Bexley, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.

2d Bruns.–Cool it now with —-‘s blood,
So the charm is firm and good.


[1] Alluding to a well-known lyric composition of the late Marquis, which, with a slight alteration, might be addressed either to a flea or a fly.