And WATKIN you know, though an excellent crea

ture,

Is amply endow'd with the family feature.

These benches have long been the station of those
Who in absence of places and wit here repose.
Here WILBERFORCE fidgets with conscience's twins,
One speaking for outs, t' other voting with ins.
No cough from a neighbour here ever discloses
The tedium arising from BANKES when he proses.
Those jokes from behind which were wont to dis-

order

.

My former exertions on questions of order,
No longer are heard, or are lost in that space
That parts me from those I so lov'd when in place.
Here Generals on shelf, and Admirals yellow,
The quiet enjoy of perpetual fallow.

But enough of these places; I'm anxious for those
That tend more to profit, and less to repose.
FREEMANTLE's impatient, and you want the Garter,
But what have we got for those honours to barter?
Our honour is gone, our numbers not wanted,
Supposing our talents were taken for granted.
The House to address when we show our intention,
Is not much dispos'd to show any attention;
Whigs and Tories unite, and in one thing agree,
That dinner is better than list'ning to me;

And our other great orator, sage PHILLIMORE,
Ere long will be voted a terrible bore.

You Peers may do something, when once you begin;
Till which time believe me your faithful

CHARLES WYNN.

HINTS TO THE RIGHT HON.
GEORGE CANNING.

April 3, 1813.

"Visions of glory, spare my aching sight:
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul."

WHEN of ruptures you speak,

And infirmities seek,

To give a new zest to your diction;
When you sportively play

With disease and decay,

And merriment wring from affliction

What topics for wit

Might your eloquence hit

In lively lampoon of each neighbour,

While you feelingly paint,

Without blush or restraint,

Each curse under which they may labour !

Thus you might in debate

From a PERCEVAL's fate

Extract entertainment and mirth;

While you kept to yourself,

(Like your Portugal pelf,)
The moral to which it gave birth.

From that fearful affray

With the fierce CASTLEREAGH,
And your own fundamental disasters
Don't you think you might slyly
Hook in "Brother HILEY,"

And the Doctor with syringe and plasters?

You might press pretty hard
On poor WHARTON the Bard,
His twinges and gouty grimaces;
Roncesvalles itself†,

Ere consign'd to the shelf,
Never made half so many wry faces.

* A local reference to the Right Hon. Gentleman's wound.

† Roncesvalles, a Poem by the above hobbling Bard, who is a Joint martyr to the muse and gout.

And why not have at

That huge chaos of fat

That rolls over Royalty's shoulders,
That drops by degrees

From the neck to the knees,

To the common surprise of beholders?

Why bury the truth,

Nor depicture his youth,

The object of love's admiration;
While the "purple light" shows,
On His Highness's nose,
The depth of his daily libation?

Disgorging his gains,

(What a fool for his pains!)

Next CAMDEN his Tellership offers:

How

easy for you

In a laughable view

To place the new weight of his coffers!

O'er your tool, STURGES BOURNE,
Might your irony mourn

His late disappointed ambition;

His sighs for the Chair,

His looks of despair,

His vanity's painful condition!

Your remarks might be led

To the weight of his head,

Though deem'd, and with justice, most solid:
How the House would be sick

Of a person so thick

Of a Speaker so squat and so squalid.

You might say that his mouth,
Stretching wide North and South,
And from West again gaping to East;
With such craving dimensions,

To gobble down Pensions,

Would on Places and Sinecures feast.

You might whisper him too,

That for "Sarum the New"

He should substitute "Sarum the Old * ;”

The last he would find

Just the thing to his mind

A thing, like himself, to be sold.

The Right Honourable Gentleman's wish is to

represent the City of Salisbury.