“God prosper long our noble King, Our lives and safeties all, A woeful Horse race late there did At Whittington befall. Great Bedford’s duke, a mighty prince A solemn vow did make; His pleasure in fair Staffordshire Three summer days to take, At once to grace his father’s race, And to confound his foes; But ah! (with grief my muse does speak) A luckless time he chose. For some rude clowns who long had felt The weight of tax and levy, Explain’d their case unto his Grace, By arguments full heavy. ‘No Gow’r,’ they cried, ‘no tool of pow’r!’ At that the Earl turned pale. ‘No Gow’r, no Gow’r, no tool of pow’r!’ Re-echo’d from each dale. Then Bedford’s mighty breast took fire; Who thus enrag’d did cry, ‘To horse, my Lords, my knights and squires; We’ll be reveng’d or die.’ They mounted straight, all men of birth, Captains of land and sea; No prince or potentate on earth Had such a troop as he. Great Lords and Lordlings, close conjoin’d, A shining squadron stood; But to their cost, the Yeomen Host Did prove the better blood. ‘A Gow’r, a Gow’r! ye son o’ th’ w--e, Vile spawn of Babylon!’ This said, his Grace did mend his pace, And came full fiercely on. Three times he smote a sturdy foe; Who undismay’d replied, ‘Or be thou devil, or be thou Duke, Thy courage shall be tried.’ The charge began; but, on one side, Some slackness there was found; The smart cockade in dust was laid, And trampled on the ground. Some felt sore thwacks upon their backs. Some, pains within their bowels; And who did joke the royal oak, Were well rubbed with its towels. Then terror seized the plumed troop, Who turned themselves to flight. Foul rout and fear brought up the rear, Oh! ’twas a piteous sight! Each warrior urg’d his nimble steed, But none durst look behind; Th’ insulting foe, they well did know, Had got them in the wind. Who ne’er lost scent, until they came Unto the gallows tree: ‘Now,’ said their foes, ‘we’ll not oppose, Your certain destiny. No further help of ours ye lack, Grant mercy with your doom! Trust to the care o’ the three-legg’d mare, She’ll bring ye all safe home.’ Then wheel’d about with this fierce shout, ‘Confusion to the Rump!’ Leaving each knight to moan his plight Beneath the triple stump. Now Heaven preserve such hearts as these From secret Treachery! Who hate a knave, and scorn a slave, May such be ever _Free_!” In 1749, Lord Trentham, having been appointed one of the lords of the admiralty, had to vacate his seat, and every exertion was made by the Opposition to hinder his re-election.