My wrath, indeed, is now so keen, I Ev’n wish, for sake of that Aldini, This ink were _poison_ for the wizard, This _pen_ a _dagger_ in his gizzard!
For he (’tis told in public papers) Can make dead people cut droll capers; And shuffling off death’s iron trammels, To kick and hop like dancing camels.
To raise a dead dog he was able,[56] Though laid in quarters on a table, And led him yelping, round the town, With two legs up, and two legs down;[57]
And, in the presence of a posse Of our great men, and ANDREOSSI, He show’d _black art_ of worse description, Than e’er did conjuring Egyptian.
He cut a bullock’s head I ween, Sheer off, as if by guillotine; Then (Satan aiding the adventure) He made it _bellow_ like a Stentor![58]
And this most comical magician Will soon, in public exhibition, Perform a feat he’s often boasted, And animate a dead pig---- _roasted_.
With powers of these Metallic Tractors, He can revive dead malefactors; And is reanimating daily, Rogues that were hung _once_, at Old Bailey![59]
And sure I am, he’ll break the peace, Unless secured by our police; For such a chap, as you’re alive, Full many a felon will revive.
And as he can (no doubt of that) Give rogues the _nine_ lives of a cat; Why then, to expiate their crimes, These rogues must all be hung _nine_ times.
What more enhances this offence is, ’Twill ninefold government’s expenses; And such a load, in name of wonder, Pray how can JOHNNY BULL stand under?
Theft why not rise, and make a clatter, And put a stop to all this matter-- Why don’t you rouse, I say, in season, And cut the wicked wizard’s weasand?
’Tis true, alas! I’m loth to say, That you forsake the good old way, And tread a path so very odd, So unlike that your fathers trod.
With what delight the poet fancies He sees their worships plague old FRANCIS;[60] While he, sad wight, wo-worn and pale, Is dragg’d about from jail to jail!
For he was such a stubborn dragon, He would not down and worship Dagon; That is to say, would not acknowledge Supremacy of your great college!
And what was worse, if worse could be, And raised their ire to such degree, That they to Tyburn swore they’d cart him; He _cured_ folks “_non secundum artem_.”
His patients _saved_, from mere compassion, Though _killing_ was the most in fashion! Then well your father’s ire might burn as Hot as the famed Chaldean furnace!