That is, they’ve been canvassing, and spouting, and pledging, and
          ginning, and beering. 
  Hasn’t Crawford and Pattison, Lyall, Masterman, Wood, and Lord John
          Russell,
  For ever so long been keeping the Great Metropolis in one alarming
          bussel? 
  Ain’t the two first retired into private life—­(that’s the genteel
          for being rejected)? 
  And what’s more, the last four, strange to say, have all been elected. 
  Then Finsbury Tom and Mr. Wakley, as wears his hair all over his
          coat collar,
  Hav’n’t they frightened Mr. Tooke, who once said he could beat them
          Hollar? 
  Then at Lambeth, ain’t Mr. Baldwin and Mr. Cabbell been both on ’em
          bottled
  By Mr. D’Eyncourt and Mr. Hawes, who makes soap yellow and mottled! 
  And hasn’t Sir Benjamin Hall, and the gallant Commodore Napier,
  Made such a cabal with Cabbell and Hamilton as would make any chap queer? 
  Whilst Sankey, who was backed by a Cleave-r for Marrowbone
          looks cranky,
  Acos the electors, like lisping babbies, cried out “No Sankee?”
  Then South’ark has sent Alderman Humphrey and Mr. B. Wood,
  Who has promised, that if ever a member of parliament did his duty—­he
          would! 
  Then for the Tower Hamlets, Robinson, Hutchinson, and Thompson, find
          that they’re in the wrong box,
  For the electors, though turned to Clay, still gallantly followed
          the Fox;
  Whilst Westminster’s chosen Rous—­not Rouse of the Eagle—­tho’ I once
          seed a
  Picture where there was a great big bird, very like a goose, along
          with a Leda. 
  And hasn’t Sir Robert Peel and Mr. A’Court been down to Tamworth to be
          reseated? 
  They ought to get an act of parliament to save them such fatigue, for
          its always—­ditto repeated. 
  Whilst at Leeds, Beckett and Aldam have put Lord Jocelyn into a
          considerable fume,
  Who finds it no go, though he’s added up the poll-books several times
          with the calculating boy, Joe Hume. 
  So if there’s been no other election, I should like to find out
  What all the late squibbing and fibbing, placarding, and blackguarding,
          losing and winning, beering and ginning, and every other et
          cetera, has been about!

* * * * *

TO THE BLACK-BALLED OF THE UNITED SERVICE.

  Black bottles at Brighton,
    To darken your fame;
  Black Sundays at Hounslow,
    To add to your shame. 
  Black balls at the club,
    Show Lord Hill’s growing duller: 
  He should change your command
    To the guards of that colour.

* * * * *