Classic Poem

VII

Gl — nb — e, Gl — nb — e,
What's good for the scurvy?
For ne'er be your old trade forgot —
In your arms rather quarter
A pestle and mortar,
And your crest be a spruce gallipot,
Gl — nb — e,
And your crest be a spruce gallipot.

VIII

Gl — nb — e, Gl — nb — e,
The world's topsy-turvy,
Of this truth you're the fittest attester;
For, who can deny
That the low become high,
When the king makes a lord of Silvester,
Gl — nb — e,
When the king makes a lord of Silvester?

IX

Mr. P — l, Mr. P — l,
In return for your zeal,
I am told they have dubb'd you Sir Bob
Having got wealth enough
By coarse Manchester stuff,
For honours you'll now drive a job,
Mr. P — l,
For honours you'll now drive a job.

X

Oh poor B — ks, oh poor B — ks,
Still condemn'd to the ranks,
Not e'en yet from a private promoted;
Pitt ne'er will relent,
Though he knows you repent
Having once or twice honestly voted,
Poor B — ks,
Having once or twice honestly voted.

XI

Dull H — l — y, dull H — l — y,
Your auditors feel ye
A speaker of very great weight,
And they wish you were dumb,
When, with ponderous hum,
You lengthen the drowsy debate,
Dull H — l — y,
You lengthen the drowsy debate.