O’Connell will toil to raise the Rent,
    And Kenyon to sink the Nation;
  And Sheil will abuse the Parliament,
    And Peel the Association;
  And the thought of bayonets and swords
    Will make ex-Chancellors merry—­
  And jokes will be cut in the House of Lords,
    And throats in the County Kerry;
  And writers of weight will speculate
    On the Cabinet’s design—­
  And just what it did in Twenty-eight,
    It will do in Twenty-nine.

  Mathews will be extremely gay,
    And Hook extremely dirty;
  And brick and mortar still will say
    “Try Warren, No. 30;”
  And “General Sauce” will have its puff,
    And so will General Jackson—­
  And peasants will drink up heavy stuff,
    Which they pay a heavy tax on;
  And long and late, at many a fete,
    Gooseberry champagne will shine—­
  And as old as it was in Twenty-eight,
    It will be in Twenty-nine.

  And the Goddess of Love will keep her smiles;
    And the God of Cups his orgies;
  And there’ll be riots in St. Giles,
    And weddings in St. George’s;
  And Mendicants will sup like Kings,
    And Lords will swear like Lacqueys—­
  And black eyes oft will lead to rings,
    And rings will lead to black eyes;
  And pretty Kate will scold her mate. 
    In a dialect all divine—­
  Alas! they married in Twenty-eight,—­
    They will part in Twenty-nine!

  John Thomas Mugg, on a lonely hill,
    Will do a deed of mystery—­
  The Morning Chronicle will fill
    Five columns with the history;
  The Jury will be all surprise,
    The Prisoner quite collected—­
  And Justice Park will wipe his eyes,
    And be very much affected;
  And folks will relate poor Corder’s fate,
    As they hurry home to dine,
  Comparing the hangings of Twenty-eight
    With the hangings of Twenty-nine.

  A Curate will go from the house of prayer
    To wrong his worthy neighbour,
  By dint of quoting the texts of Blair,
    And singing the songs of Weber;
  Sir Harry will leave the Craven hounds,
    To trace the guilty parties—­
  And ask of the Court five thousand pounds,
    To prove how rack’d his heart is: 
  An Advocate will execrate
    The spoiler of Hymen’s shrine—­
  And the speech that did for Twenty-eight
    Will do for Twenty-nine.

  My Uncle will swathe his gouty limbs,
    And tell of his oils and blubbers;
  My Aunt, Miss Dobbs, will play longer hymns,
    And rather longer rubbers;
  My Cousin in Parliament will prove
    How utterly ruin’d trade is—­
  My Brother at Eton will fall in love
    With half a hundred ladies;
  My Patron will sate his pride from plate. 
    And his thirst from Bordeaux vine—­
  His nose was red in Twenty-eight,—­
    ’Twill be redder in Twenty-nine!