PROCRASTINATION.*

"'There well it were done quickly."

How long, oh ye Lords in the Commons! RUSSELL, ALTDORP, and Howice, how long Will you quail to the querulous non ones That make up the Boroughmen's throng ? . Why the vengeance thus stand, growing older, Spell-bound by their bothering clack ? Don't you feel a smart rap on the shoulder? 'Tis the fist of John Bull at your back I

Will ye wait till the long-winded patience

Of Englishmen fails, and you see Great Britain arrayed with the nations Who swear on the sword to be free ? Let Anarchy once play her rigs,

She'll tell you a plain-spoken story, Not favouring indolent Whigs,

Any more than a tyrannous Tory.

Lord save us ! the world has gone mad— Here are Ministers, People, and King, Requesting—and " not to be had," Is the answer that Boroughmen bring ! Dull drivellers are muster'd to quell. Of millions the patriot pride And their mud-banks are rear'd to repel Great Truth's irresistible tide !

Why, whose is the hand at the helm? Now breezes and billows are fair— You've a force all your foes to o'crwhelm- Why loll ye thus lubberiy there ?

If a syren-like song's the provoker

To slumber whereby you are sward,

Say, is it the note pf a CROKER, Or the puerile prattle of PRAED ?

Meanwhile, we've the Belgians and Dutch, Talking big about falchion and trigger; And this, though it matters not much,

Gives the crew of Sir ROBERT fresh vigour. Their hope is in blood—which if shed May plunge us in wars; " and, oh ! when," Say they, "'tie once out of his head,

John Bull will ne'er think on't again."

Poor fellows ! you're wrong, as you'll find.

But, speaking of blood, look at France,

Who honours her triumph of mind

With shows and a national dance ! The shouts of the revels ascend

With Poland's expiring groan—

Oh, where should she look for a friend If not upon Liberty's throne ?

But what have we done for the Poles?

Oh, dined and got drunk—that is all ! While they pour'd their chivalrous souls,

'Twas ours for more claret to call.

Even now, though no cash can be spared

For the wants of the bleeding and brave, Yet a turtle-spread Bridge is prepared For the Court and the King—whom God save!

Well, eat, drink, and do what you will,

My masters, who carry the Seals ;— But mind, we're all bent on the Bill, Though we don't mean to grudge you your meals. Nor by force, nor by fraud can the claim Of the national mind he withstood, Then bestir—for 'twould try you to tame Wild Anarchy's horrible brood 1

• This appeared in our latest edition last week ; and it is now inserted for those friends in the country who read only the first edition.