Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN'S TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE; ELECTION BALLAD, by THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: As I sat down to breakfast in state Last Line: We were rumbling o'er trumpington stones. Alternate Author Name(s): Macaulay, 1st Baron Subject(s): Clergy; Elections; Priests; Rabbis; Ministers; Bishops; Voting; Voters; Suffrage | ||||||||
As I sat down to breakfast in state, At my living of Tithing-cum-Boring, With Betty beside me to wait, Came a rap that almost beat the door in. I laid down my basin of tea. And Betty ceased spreading the toast, 'As sure as a gun, sir,' said she, 'That must be the knock of the post.' A letter--and free--bring it here-- I have no correspondent who franks. No! yes! can it bo? Why, my dear, 'Tis our glorious, our Protestant Bankes. 'Dear sir, as I know you desire That the Church should receive due protection, I humbly presume to require Your aid at the Cambridge election. 'It has lately been brought to my knowledge, That the Ministers fully design To suppress each cathedral and college, And eject every learned divine. To assist this detestable scheme Three nuncios from Rome are come over; They left Calais on Monday by steam, And landed to dinner at Dover. 'An army of grim Cordeliers, Well furnished with relics and vermin, Will follow, Lord Westmoreland fears, To effect what their chiefs may determine. Lollards' Tower, good authorities say, Is again fitting up as a prison; And a wood-merchant told me to-day 'Tis a wonder how faggots have risen. 'The finance scheme of Canning contains A new Easter-offering tax; And he means to devote all the gains To a bounty on thumb-screws and racks. Your living, so neat and compact-- Pray, don't let the news give you pain!-- Is promised, I know for a fact, To an olive-faced Padre from Spain.' I read, and I felt my heart bleed, Sore wounded with horror and pity: So I flew, with all possible speed, To our Protestant champion's committee. True gentlemen, kind and well-bred! No fleering! no distance! no scorn! They asked after my wife, who is dead, And my children who never were born. They then, like high-principled Tories, Called our Sovereign unjust and unsteady, And assailed him with scandalous stories. Till the coach for the voters was ready. That coach might be well called a casket Of learning and brotherly love: There were parsons in boot and in basket; There were parsons below and above. There were Sneaker and Griper, a pair Who stick to Lord Mulesby like leeches; A smug chaplain of plausible air, Who writes my Lord Goslingham's speeches; Dr. Buzz, who alone is a host, Who, with arguments weighty as lead, Proves six times a week in the Post That flesh somehow differs from bread; Dr. Nimrod, whose orthodox toes Are seldom withdrawn from the stirrup; Dr. Humdrum, whose eloquence flows, Like droppings of sweet poppy syrup; Dr. Rosygill puffing and fanning, And wiping away perspiration; Dr. Humbug, who proved Mr. Canning The beast in St. John's Revelation. A layman can scarce form a notion Of our wonderful talk on the road; Of the learning, the wit, and devotion, Which almost each syllable showed: Why divided allegiance agrees So ill with our free constitution; How Catholics swear as they please, In hope of the priest's absolution; How the Bishop of Norwich had bartered His faith for a legate's commission; How Lyndhurst, afraid to be martyred, Had stooped to a base coalition; How Papists are cased from compassion By bigotry, stronger than steel; How burning would soon come in fashion, And how very bad it must feel. We were all so much touched and excited By a subject so direly sublime, That the rules of politeness were slighted, And we all of us talked at a time; And in tones, which each moment grew louder, Told how we should dress for the show, And where we should fasten the powder, And if we should bellow or no. Thus from subject to subject we ran, And the journey passed pleasantly o'er, Till at last Dr. Humdrum began; From that time I remember no more. At Ware he commenced his prelection, In the duiiest of clerical drones: And when next I regained recollection We were rumbling o'er Trumpington stones. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...INAUGURATION DAY: JANUARY 1953 by ROBERT LOWELL THE DEMONSTRATION by GREGORY ORR YOUNG SAMMY'S FIRST WILD OATS by GEORGE SANTAYANA ON A GREAT ELECTION; EPIGRAM by HILAIRE BELLOC THE BIGLOW PAPERS: 3. WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL COLORED HEROES, HARK THE BUGLE; POLITICAL by ROBERT CHARLES O'HARA BENJAMIN SUFFRAGE MARCHING-SONG by LOUIS JAMES BLOCK AN ELECTION BALLAD by ROBERT BURNS EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM OF FINTRY (1) by ROBERT BURNS BATTLE OF IVRY by THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY EPITAPH ON A JACOBITE by THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY HORATIUS [AT THE BRIDGE], FR. LAYS OF ANCIENT ROME by THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY |
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