The Humourous Poetry of the English Language

271
As all, but Frenchmen, think she was--
To Ned, as Wellington well knew,
Was owing half that day's applause.
Then for his news--no envoy's bag
E'er pass'd so many secrets through it--
Scarcely a telegraph could wag
Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it.
Such tales he had of foreign plots,
With foreign names one's ear to buzz in--
From Russia chefs and ofs in lots,
From Poland owskis by the dozen.
When GEORGE, alarm'd for England's creed,
Turn'd out the last Whig ministry,
And men ask'd--who advised the deed?
Ned modestly confess'd 'twas he.
For though, by some unlucky miss,
He had not downright SEEN the King,
He sent such hints through Viscount THIS,
To Marquis THAT, as clench'd the thing.
The same it was in science, arts,
The drama, books, MS. and printed--
Kean learn'd from Ned his cleverest parts,
And Scott's last work by him was hinted.
Childe Harold in the proofs he read,
And, here and there, infused some soul in 't--
Nay, Davy's lamp, till seen by Ned,
Had--odd enough--a dangerous hole in't.
'Twas thus, all doing and all knowing,
Wit, statesman, boxer, chemist, singer,
Whatever was the best pie going,
In THAT Ned--trust him--had his finger.