(VIDE DESCRIPTION OF A LATE FETE.)
What a pleasing contrivance! how aptly devised
‘Twixt tar and magnolias to puzzle one’s noses!
And how the tar-barrels must all be surprised
To find themselves seated like “Love among roses!”
What a pity we can’t, by precautions like these,
Clear the air of that other still viler infection;
That radical pest, that old whiggish disease,
Of which cases, true-blue, are in every direction.
Stead of barrels, let’s light up an Auto da Fe
Of a few good combustible Lords of “the Club;”
They would fume in a trice, the Whig cholera away,
And there’s Bucky would burn like a barrel of bub.
How Roden would blaze! and what rubbish throw out!
A volcano of nonsense in active display;
While Vane, as a butt, amidst laughter, would spout
The hot nothings he’s full of, all night and all day.
And then, for a finish, there’s Cumberland’s Duke,–
Good Lord, how his chin-tuft would crackle in air!
Unless (as is shrewdly surmised from his look)
He’s already bespoke for combustion elsewhere.
 The Marquis of Hertford’s Fete.–From dread of cholera his Lordship had ordered tar-barrels to be burned in every direction.