THE SPEECH OF THE MUMMY.

["The victory in New York is so great, such a perfect Waterloo to Democracy and its Sub-Treasury, that the Mummy in its Sarcophagus, would cry out against all true Whigs if we were not to rejoice with the overwhelming exultation that befits the occasion." Whig Paper.

'Twas still o'er Egypt's storied land

While proudly walked the Queen of Light

Amid her glory beaming band,

And lighted up the "Noon of Night."

Upon the arid waste were cast

The Pyramids' long shades of gloom,
While they, huge relics of the past,

Towered 'mid the skies the Mighty's tomb.

The Bedouin Arab slept from blood,
The Wild Dog's howl had died away,

Afar the Nile's reviving flood

Sent flashing back the glancing ray,
Old Cairo's fanes in beauty glowed,

The marble palace softer grew,—
The Night Owl hooted to the Toad,

And Bats through Pharaoh's ruins flew,
'Twas such a night as Poets love,
When mind communcs with mind above.

The Watchman on the Pacha's tower,

Had blown the trumpet note of time,
While in the dark eyed Jewess' bower,
The turbaned lover slept in crime;
A voice now came upon the breeze,

It echoed o'er Old Memphis' dust-
It pealed through Memnon's cypress trees-
And over Thebes' foundation burst-
Peal after peal, the echoing note,

Swept round the ruin's mossy peak,
As though the Whigs by every vote,
Had lease of power for a week,
And now it shook the solid land,

While temples rattled in their places,
As though the "Callithumpian Band"
Had given a concert to the Graces.
Such was the Whig's exulting shout,

Raised when the "Three Day's" work was done,

When through New York 'twas noised about

That Marcy lost, and Seward won.

The Snoozing Mummy burst his lid,
And came to speak of future time
From Cheop's mighty Pyramid,

Upreared by cruelty and crime.
And while he sported his segar,

(A kind down East, they call long-nine,) He freed his yellow lips from tar

With Arthur Tappan's "Temperance wine," Then with a hoarse sepulchral tone,

As Wise or Bell have ever lifted,

He sat upon the crowning stone:

And thus the Whigs of Gotham sifted, And while in Saxon tongue he spoke, Columbia started and awoke.

"What noisy Roysters break my sleep?— Has Pharaoh Primus got permission His Court on Earth again to keep,

By means of some new Whig 'Magician?' Has Israel's wandering host returned,

To bring new curses deep and strong:

Or have the Infernal Spirits learned

The last new fashionable song?

Has Queen Victoria got a Beau,

Or Britain's sway been made complete,

In Canada's ford hopes laid low,

And Freedom crushed beneath her feet?

Has grim Diogenes been able

To find an honest man on earth?

Or have the tribes beneath Old Babel
A second time been scattered forth?
Has Hercules the mighty come
To do the labors of a God?
Or has far Lapland's sorcerer's drum
Awoke the sleepy land of Nod?
No! no! but 'pon my time-dried soul,
The shout is from a tipsy Tory-
A self-styled Whig, who gained the poll
Of Gotham, at the price of glory.

Dark Ethiopia stretch thy wings,

No more regret thy children's color

For thee a Bradish loudly sings-

And Seward, too, though somewhat duller.

And since their children's curly heads

Became so dear to every ranter.

The Whigs can't sleep upon their beds 'Till they amalgamate instanter.

And backed by ancient maids and madams,

They preach and pray, and grin sardonic,

And with their leader, Quincy Adams,
They curse the South in style laconic.
But some among them, simple fellows,
Who love the shadow of a shade,
Prefer the puffing-to the bellows-
And run a Bubble-making trade;
And worse than Holland's Tulip fever,

For there, at least, they had the Onions,
They humbug every true Believer

With burdens heavier far than Bunyan's;
And worse than South Sea bubbles too-
For there the Whales were in deposit-
(The Bank was somewhat large, 'tis true,
And Ocean was the money closet.)
But still the Whales were there in numbers,
To be paid out to proper owners,
Provided they would rouse their slumbers,

And only brave the fate of Jonahs.
In fact they 've played the very devil
With common sense and people's pockets,

And now o'er golden cups they revel,

And cheat the poor, and fill the dockets.
And when they 've nothing else to do

To gratify their windy pleasures,
They pierce my Sarcophagus through,

And scratch among my skirts for treasures;

And if the gropers want more light*

They set my legs to burning bright-
They burn my legs-by Thebes they do→
Why half my lower limbs are charred-

I was no money hoarding Jew,

Nor did I grind the poor man hard

I was a genteel man of pleasure,
And kept my hundred wives in order}
And when I felt the want of treasure,
I always found it o'er the border;
And I invented Jews-harps pretty,
To make the lasses show their teeth-
They sold quite heavy in the city,
But out of town beyond belief;-
And then the art of calculation

By characters from one to ten,
I taught before the Yankee nation,

Was thought of by the wisest men ;
And being thus the "Pa" of figures,
I calculate I'll be permitted

To talk about the banks and niggers

As one unqualifiedly fitted.

* Travellers record that the peasantry of Egypt near the Catacombs, commonly use the Mummies for fuel,

But hold your breath and save your powder,
Let Jersey Clerks be damned to fame,
Let babbling scribblers roar the louder,
And Phillis swell her loved one's name,
I can rejoice in Alto-Whig-

Fire guns when rascals rob the poll,

Talk large. brag high, and bluster big,

And even damn the Speaker's soul,

And if need be, can use the rifle

With deadly aim at Party's call, Since thus I'll win, to conscience stifle, Apology or praise from all,

If blood be on my hands or skirts,

What then-the DEAD was "Party's minion,"

And dined and feasted,-let the rest

"Be matter of opinion."

But since you go for squibs and singing,

I'll let you have a "spell of rhyme,"

So down the side his old hat flinging,

He howled 'gainst harmony and time;

The Screech Owl heard him and grew jealous,
While Boreas threw away his bellows.

THE MUMMY SINGS.

Lives there a Whig who would play second Fiddle,
When Fiddle the first he could play by deceiving,

Search through the country from Harry to Biddle,
And when ye behold him, why seeing's believing-

Cling for your hope of ascendency to him,

Bring him to daylight and trumpet his name, For he, only he, if your party but knew him, Can it ever from utter prostration reclaim.

Can they who have winked at the perjurer's crime,

Deem the frauds can preserve that obtained them their power

Or such triumph avert for a moment the time,

When Justice and Truth shall o'er Artifice tower.

The triumph of fraud over principle flings

A shadow of terror round Liberty's shrine,

As though the red monster of Hell shook his wings
O'er Virtue's bright resting place pure and divine.

And they who their country in peril forsook,

And lit up her hills with their beacon-fire's glow,
Who traced out in letters of shame in their book,

-""Tis a sin to rejoice when we conquer the foe❞—
Wild panic may raise our good cause to o'erwhelm,
And thunder and flash as in times that are past;
But the Ship of the People, with Truth at her helm,
Shall ride out the tempest in safety at last.

Keep our party but free from all selfish pollutors,

Give our foes, if they wish, all the Talents and Learning, And let them, if anxious, be decency's tutors,

Sages and sattelites, bold and discerning. Distress and defeat cannot bring us a terror,

The land will be free spite of shin-plaster hosts, And Truth and its party will triumph o'er error, When rag-mills and shaving-shops give up their ghosts.

Oh glory! linger beauteous still

Above the Pilgrim's hallowed shore

Light up each solitary hill

From rocky mount to Ocean's roar

Oh! say not that the freeborn race

Have bartered birthright for a song-
That o'er them History's pen shall trace
The right submitted to the wrong.
There is a principle of right

To guard the Patriot's land from harm,
Though often dimmed, it flashes bright
When damning traitors raise their arm,
Egypt forgot it, in her hour

Of might and fame, and sank in gloom,
And left the lesson in each tower,

And lettered wall, and pictured tomb.
That principle still lives carest

And spite of faction's sordid chains,
Will live to make our country blest,
And scatter plenty on her plains.
Let Whig Briarius stretch his arms,
And Discord rear her venomed dart,
Democracy fears no alarms:

Enshrined within a nation's heart;
Then merge each selfish wish in love,
Love for the Glory of the Free!

High let your shouts arise, above

The wailing wind and sounding sea.

The lazy Turk 'mid rosy bowers,

Has read his doom in words of fire,
And where Olympus,-purpled,-towers,
The Greek hangs o'er a broken Lyre-