Volume 158 — THOUGHTS ON THE BUDGET.

This twelvemonth at the grindstone I have ground, Toiling to meet the toll of profiteers, And now comes Austen, budgeting around, "Comes the blind Fury with the abhorréd shears" (Milton), and leaves me naked as a poodle, Shorn—to the buff—of my laborious boodle. I own it irks me little when he goes For fancy weeds and wine of fizzy brands; But I protest at parting through the nose For what the meanest human life demands; Nothing is sacred from his monstrous paw, Not letters, no, nor even usquebaugh. That beverage, which invites to balmy sleep (Guerdon of toil), is on the upward ramp; My harmless doggerel—in itself so cheap— Despatched by post will want a larger stamp; Nor have I any wives or children to Abate the mulcting of my revenue. But if you tell me I am asked to bleed For England; if, by being rudely tapped, My modest increment may help at need To spare some Office which would else be scrapped; If my poor fleece of wool by heavy cropping Can save the Civil Estimates from dropping;— If I can keep in comfortable ease But one superfluous Staff for one week's play; If from my squalor I may hope to squeeze The wherewithal to check for half a day The untimely razing of a single Hut— 'Tis well; I will not even murmur "Tut."