The Vision of the Pope
VISION OF THE POPE;
SNOOZE IN THE VATICAN.
BENSON AND BARLING.
LONDON: SIMPKIN & MARSHALL.
TO FRIENDS “AT HOME,” THESE LINES ON ROME,
BY LEAVE, ARE DEDICATED,
TO SHOW THEM HOW, POPE PIUS NOW,
BY PROTESTANTS IS HATED.
Good people all, both short and tall,
I’ve got a little news,
For I’m just come, by rail from Rome,—
So listen to my muse.
’Tis Gaffer Pope, who lost to hope,
Now speaks to all quite surly;
And by his fire, pens quire on quire,
About this hurly-burly!
With wax a deal, and great round seal,
He every where is sending;
For “HOLINESS” is in a mess,
That’s really quite heart-rending.
Poor “Boots,” his man, fast as he can,
Runs to and fro to—post;
His lanthorn frame, (’tis quite a shame,)
Is worn down to a ghost.
He sent to me (who signed J.D.),
For jeering at his Toe!
And says that I, “Whene’er I die,
“‘Somewhere’ shall surely go! ”
“As for the rest, it is at best,
“A down right wicked lie;
“And as to ‘prig and thimble-rig,’ ∗
“I knew ’twas all my eye.”
“Nor do we, here, the things you swear,
“We holy men at Rome,
“And that you’d say, could you a day
“Spend here with us at-home.”
“We thus invite, you here to night,
“To see the Vatican;
“Then raise your arm and give alarm,
“If you consistent can.”
So off we went, with heart content,—
Oh! we were in our glory;
And now we’ll tell, what there befell;
And thus begins our story.
The Vision of the Pope.
’Twas e’en now dark,—so for the lark
We took the rail to Rome,
To look around, on holy ground,
And catch the Pope “at-home!”
When we got there, we had a stare,
At things that set us thinking;
At knavish priests, and secret feasts,
And Virgin Marys’ winking!
The new-made Nun, was at her fun,
With sister near to dress her;
She donn’d the clothes of good Ambrose,
And then tried to—confess her.
The Abbess meek, she gave a squeak,
For in her cushioned chair,
Some Friar Tuck sharp pins had stuck,
That prick’d her everywhere!
He then did chaff,—She then did laugh,
As o’er their gin-and-water,
He told his deeds,—She told her beads,
Just as Old Tuck had taught her.
The crafty Pope—once full of hope,
Sat by his flick’ring fire;
There thinking how to quell the row,
Of English people's ire.
With lambs-wool hose, and small red nose,
And ermine round his body;
In dressing gown, and papal crown,
He sipp’d his “Whisky-Toddy.”
Of bottles black, he had no lack,
Well fill’d with L.L. whisky;
For Clarendon, had sent him some,
To keep the old boy frisky.
Of lemon nice, he took a slice,
And then a little candy:
At making grog, the jolly dog
Was really very handy.
He fill’d his pipe, with “bird’s-eye” ripe,
And smok’d away like bricks;
His thoughts were full, of old John Bull,
That prince of Heretics.
He brew’d a glass, then sigh’d “alas!”
Then stretched him out to sleep,
When visions vain, came o’er his brain,
That caused the saint to weep.
Again the throne, once all his own,
By Romans was ignored;
He tumbled down, smash went the crown—
In fact, he was quite floor’d!
Then off to France, that land of dance,
His Courier straight did go;
For Louis pet, is in a sweat,
And what to do don’t know.
With deep intent, the President,
Says, “take ten thousand men,
“I’ll ’gage to Rome, to take him home,
“And make him king again.”
“But for my pay, mind what I say,
“A Cardinal must go,
“To England’s land, and take a stand,
“Whether they will or no.”
“If they refuse, we’ll try this ruse,
“Straight on the English water;
“My friends discreet, shall send a fleet,
“And show them little quarter.”
“For if at them, my warlike men,
“Could only have a slap,
“My fate is sealed,—to me they’d yield—
“The emp’rors ‘Velvet Cap.’”
“But if they bow, and make no row,
“We’ll show them at a view,
“That all this fuss, is play in us,
“And only a review.”
“Good!” by his side, a “Wiseman” cried,
“Let me to England go,
“I’ll make them all, both great and small,
“Respect your ‘Holy toe.’”
“In council there, we bare a share,
“For Grey I know will have us;
“He likes our creed, so sate his greed,
“And he will try to save us.”
“There’s Benjy Hawes, you know the cause,
“Will help us to a ‘Hat’
“And stockings too. He doats on you,
“And will be sure to ‘rat.’”
“There’s our friend Shiel, who tried a feel
“Upon the new two-shilling;
“But old John Bull, although a fool,
“To take it was not willing.”
“There’s Little John, who can hold on
“However turns the nation;
“His way is best, so let him rest,
“Or he may lose his station.”
“There’s Cobden too, will help our stew,
“For he’ll reduce their army;
“Then should they fight, ’twill be all right,
“We shall get on quite ‘barmy,’”
“"E’en in the Church, we’ve got a perch,
“For Oxford's Bishop's tainted;
“I’ve promised him, should we get in,
“To have his Lordship Sainted.”
“He’s got the care of England’s heir,
“To train him up in letters,
“He’ll make him feed, on Romish creed,
“Till chained in Romish fetters.”
“The London man, our fire will fan,
“He's half inclined to `rat,’
“I’ve hinted plain, that he may claim
“From me, ‘my left off Hat.’”
“There’s Exeter, has made a stir,
“And preached in Roman tones,
“He took my word, that if he stirr’d,
“We’d canonize his bones.”
“Old Pusey’s tribe, too, took the bribe,
“They like a bit of ‘Fat;’
“Then let me go, now don't say `No,'
“Shall I put on my ‘Hat?’”
“Yes; you may go,—I wont say ‘No!’”
Cried Dozey, in his sleep,
“So no delay—The Wolf’s away,
“To grab our straggling sheep.”
Still Pius slept, and o’er him crept
The scene on England’s soil;
Where Parsons rose, like flights of Crows,
Intent the Wolf to foil.
With open maws, they vent their caws,
Above the battle field;
And from their lungs, with croaking tongues,
They swore they would not yield.
Yet still the Pope, had some faint hope,
That at the “Exhibition,”
His merry men, would serve him then,
And better his condition.
For in that Town, of great renown,
Three million strangers roam;
To see the show, profess’d they go,
But more to fight for Rome.
That beardless king, that perjured thing,
Of Austria’s throne did send,
A mighty crew, who swore to do
His bidding to the end.
Gaul’s President, he also sent,
To help the scheme in vain;
For John Bull rose, and domn’d his nose,
And shook his bristling mane.
We’ve had enough of Popish stuff,
We will not even view it;
No ‘Pope of Rome,’ nor ‘Pope at-home,’
Shall here again renew it.
Up! up! they rise,—with flashing eyes,
And vent their indignation;
“To think these fools, with foreign tools,”
Should rule “Old England’s nation.”
All through the land, they made a stand,
’Gainst priestly domination;
They turned them out, and put to rout,
These traitors to the nation.
They left not one, when they were done,
No saving hand was shown;
But on their backs, they strapp’d their packs,
And kicked them back to Rome.
Their groaning wail, rose on the gale,
Pope Pius woke in fright;
His grog was cold, the chimes they toll’d,—
’Twas twelve o’clock at night.
Don't build up high, towards the sky,
Your palaces so airy ;
Or you’ll fall down, and smash your crown,
In some great kitchen “arey.”
Nor yet at night, whate'er your plight,
Don’t take “Hot Whisky-Toddy;”
Or when you sleep, night-mare may creep,
Upon your blessed body.
- Vide addresses by the author, issued some time since.