FullReads

REYNOLDS and I–(you know TOM REYNOLDS–
Drinks his claret, keeps his chaise–
Lucky the dog that first unkennels
Traitors and Luddites now-a-days;
Or who can help to bag a few,
When SIDMOUTH wants a death, or two;)
REYNOLDS and I and some few more,
All men like us of information,
Friends whom his Lordship keeps in store,
As under-saviors of the nation[1]–
Have, formed a Club this season, where
His Lordship sometimes takes the chair,
And gives us many a bright oration
In praise of our sublime vocation;
Tracing it up to great King MIDAS,
Who, tho’ in fable typified as
A royal Ass, by grace, divine
And right of ears, most asinine,
Was yet no more, in fact historical,
Than an exceeding well-bred tyrant;
And these, his ears, but allegorical,
Meaning Informers, kept at high rent–
Gem’men, who touched the Treasury glisteners,
Like us, for being trusty listeners;
And picking up each tale and fragment,
For royal MIDAS’S Green Bag meant.
“And wherefore,” said this best of Peers,
“Should not the REGENT too have ears,
“To reach as far, as long and wide as
“Those of his model, good King MIDAS?”
This speech was thought extremely good,
And (rare for him) was understood–
Instant we drank “The REGENT’S Ears,”
With three times three illustrious cheers,
Which made the room resound like thunder–
“The REGENT’S Ears, and may he ne’er
“From foolish shame, like MIDAS, wear
“Old paltry wigs to keep them[2] under!”
This touch at our old friends, the Whigs,
Made us as merry all as grigs.
In short (I’ll thank you not to mention
These things again), we get on gayly;
And thanks to pension and Suspension,
Our little Club increases daily.
CASTLES, and OLIVER, and such,
Who don’t as yet full salary touch,
Nor keep their chaise and pair, nor buy
Houses and lands, like TOM and I,
Of course don’t rank with us salvators,[3]
But merely serve the Club as waiters,
Like Knights, too, we’ve our collar days,
(For us, I own, an awkward phrase,)
When, in our new costume adorned,–
The REGENT’S buff-and-blue coats turned—
We have the honor to give dinners
To the chief Rats in upper stations:
Your WEMYS, VAUGHANS,–half-fledged sinners,
Who shame us by their imitations;
Who turn, ’tis true–but what of that?
Give me the useful peaching Rat;
Not things as mute as Punch, when bought,
Whose wooden heads are all they’ve brought;
Who, false enough to shirk their friends,
But too faint-hearted to betray,
Are, after all their twists and bends,
But souls in Limbo, damned half way.
No, no, we nobler vermin are
A genus useful as we’re rare;
Midst all the things miraculous
Of which your natural histories brag,
The rarest must be Rats like us,
Who let the cat out of the bag.
Yet still these Tyros in the cause
Deserve, I own, no small applause;
And they’re by us received and treated
With all due honors–only seated
In the inverse scale of their reward,
The merely promised next my Lord;
Small pensions then, and so on, down,
Rat after rat, they graduate
Thro’ job, red ribbon and silk gown,
To Chancellorship and Marquisate.
This serves to nurse the ratting spirit;
The less the bribe the more the merit.

Our music’s good, you may be sure;
My Lord, you know, ‘s an amateur[4]–
Takes every part with perfect ease,
Tho’ to the Base by nature suited;
And, formed for all, as best may please,
For whips and bolts, or chords and keys,
Turns from his victims to his glees,
And has them both well executed.[5]
HERTFORD, who, tho’ no Rat himself,
Delights in all such liberal arts,
Drinks largely to the House of Guelph,
And superintends the Corni parts.
While CANNING, who’d be first by choice,
Consents to take an under voice;
And GRAVES,[6] who well that signal knows,
Watches the Volti Subitos.[7]