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Subterranean oratory, or A lyrical dozen, for the "Hero of Waterloo"

(269) Subterranean oratory, or A lyrical dozen, for the "Hero of Waterloo"

        Subterranean Oratory,

OR A LYRICAL DOZEN, FOR THE

    " HERO OF WATERLOO."

                  IRISH MEASURE.

'Tis difficult to ſay aught new
Of WELLINGTON or WATERLOO;
The theme, ſo hackney'd, has become
A Military bore to ſome—

E'en Colliers, working down below,
Deſpiſe mere pageantry and ſhew,
When nothing elſe appears beſide
Fictitious conſequence and pride !

    Air—" Cappy, or the Pitman's Dog."

YE ſons of the Tyne ! to my ſtory attend,
An' aw'll tell ye ſomething 'at ye niver ken'd ;
But when ye ha'e heard it, aw'm very weel ſhure,
Ye'll think like wor Bob o' the Minions o' Power,
Wi' their pageantry, loyalty, mummery flummery,
Pride, oſtentation and pomp and parade.

'Twas laſt Friday morning, while yet it was dark,
As Bob an' his marrows were coming frae wark,
They were talking o' Wellington's Visit, and how
His Grace was receiv'd in each toon he paſs'd thro' ;
Where each Corporation ſhew'd their admiration
By turtle an' veniſon cook'd up in stile !

Od ſmaſh my pit hoggars ! ſays Geordy M'Cree,
Aw'll gang to the Toon the Great Captain to ſee !
Dick White an' Jack Morgan wiſh'd Friday was here,
Then off to Newcaſtle they gaily wad ſteer :—
But what ſaid wor Bobby ? Politic Bobby !
He made a lang ſpeech ! 'at maiſt puzzled us a' !

Says Bobby, ſays he, Marrows ! mind what I ſay—
If ye be wife, lads ! ye'll a' keep away—
For why ſud ye gang, His triumph to ſwell ?
What has he done for us ? can nane o' ye tell ?
Weel done Bobby ! Politic Bobby !
Thou's the beſt Politic ever I ſaw !

Some talk of his fighting at Waterloo field
But in dancing at balls he is far better ſkill'd—
Then what has he done, lads, to gain our applauſe ?
He wanted to ſtarve us a' wiv his Corn Laws !
Think on his Amendment—his Irish amendment !
He mended the meaſure by making it warſe ! !

Folks talk of his Services done for the State—
But then they forget a' his Riches an' Plate !
Frae where did his honours an' titles a' ſpring ?
Frae a kind-hearted Nation and liberal King.
God bleſs his Majeſty ! God bleſs our Country !
Long may Britannia be happy an' free !

But " England expects every man to perform
" His duty," ſays Nelſon, in calm or in ſtorm,
And tho' Wellington ſaw our brave countrymen ſlain
By thouſands—his labours have not been in vain ;

For he is rewarded—amply rewarded
Wiv riches an' honours for what he has done !

An' where was his gratitude ? let me ax that—
When he join'd the Seceders ? he beſt kens for what—
He deſerted his Maiſter, O fie on His Grace !
An' threw the king's kindneſs full ſmack iv his face!
Then where was his gratitude ? Out of his latitude,
Where was his gratitude when he did that?

An' as for the Nation 'at gave him his wealth,
They ha'e ne great 'caſion to drink the Duke's health—
Sic an ungrateful action I never yet ſee'd
As attempting to ſtarve us a' wiv his dear bread !
Then why ſud we honour him? for his ingratitude?
Surely his services are owerpaid.

Aw need n't remind you o' what the folks ſay
About a French Soulger they ca'd Marſhal Ney,
'At was ſhot by command o' King Louis the Baſe ;
But he might ha'e been ſav'd biv a Word frev His
Grace !
Where was his clemency ? Where was his ſym-
pathy ?
Did envy or jealouſy make him ſtand mute ?

Let them 'at want places fit down o' their knees,
An' worſhip the Idols o' Power if they pleaſe—
About places an' penſions aw'll ne'er faſh my head,
But ſtill independent aw'll work for my bread,
While my name's Bobby—Politic Bobby—
Aw'll de a' the good for my country aw can!

He ſaid a vaſt mair—but aw doubt his harangue
Wad be ower much to put intiv a ſang ;
An' as aw dinna wiſh to treſpaſs on your time,
For the preſent aw'll juſt put an end to my rhyme :
So thanks to wor Bobby! Politic Bobby—
He's tell'd us o' ſomething we ne'er ken'd afore!

To Bobby's opinion they a' did ſubmit,
An' ſwore that he was the beſt man i' the pit !
They agreed, ane an' a', to purſue their awn wark,
An' leave the " Great Captain" to march in the dark !
Wiv his Corn-bill amendment—his Iriſh amendment
Potatoes an' Butter-milk ſud be his fare !

              Marshall, Printer, Newcastle.

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