The Humourous Poetry of the English Language

491
The feasts at Albert Gate was glad to share,
For tricks he blushed not at, or blushed unseen,
Now cuts the Iron King with vacant stare.
For those who, mindful of their money fled,
Rejoice in retribution, sure though late--
Should they, by ruin to reflection led,
Ask PUNCH to point the moral of his fate,
Haply that wooden-headed sage may say,
"Oft have I seen him, in his fortune's dawn,
When at his levees elbowing their way,
Peer's ermine might be seen and Bishop's lawn.
"There the great man vouchsafed in turn to each
Advice, what scrip or shares 'twas best to buy,
There his own arts his favorites he would teach,
And put them up to good things on the sly.
"Till to the House by his admirers borne,
Warmed with Champagne in flustered speech he strove,
And on through commerce, colonies, and corn,
Like engine, without break or driver, drove.
"Till when he ceased to dip in fortune's till,
Out came one cooked account--of our M. P.;
Another came--yet men scarce ventured, still,
To think their idol such a rogue could be.
"Until those figures set in sad array
Proved how his victims he had fleeced and shorn
Approach and read (if thou canst read) my lay,
Writ on him more in sadness than in scorn."
THE EPITAPH.
Here lies, the gilt rubbed off his sordid earth,
A man whom Fortune made to Fashion known;
Though void alike of breeding, parts, or birth,
God Mammon early marked him for his own.