In sable weeds the beaux and belles appear,
Dismal their out, what e'er their insides are.
Mourn on, you foolish fashionable things,
But mourn your own condition, not the king's;
Mourn for the mighty sums by him misspent,
Those prodigally given, those idly lent;
Mourn for the statues, and the tapestry too,
From Windsor, gutted to aggrandize Loo.
Mourn for the miter long from Scotland gone,
And mourn as much for the union coming on.
Mourn for ten years of war and dismal weather,
For taxes, strung like necklaces together,
On salt, malt, paper, cider, lights and leather.
Much of the Civil List need not be said:
They truly mourn who're eighteen months unpaid.
If matters then, my friends, you see are so,
Though now you mourn, 't had lessened much your woe
Had Sorrel stumbled thirteen years ago.