Behold the festive tables set, The Candidates, the Voters met! And lo, against the wainscot plac'd, Th' escutcheon, with three guineas grac'd, The motto and the crest explain, Which way the gilded bait to gain. There _William's_ mangled portrait tells What rage in party bosoms dwells; And here the banner speaks the cry For "Liberty and Loyalty." While scratches dignify his face, The tipsy Barber tells his case; How well he for his Honour fought! How many devilish knocks he got! While, forc'd to carry on the joke, The 'Squire's just blinded with the smoke; And gives his hand (for all are free) To one that's cunninger than he: With smart cockade, and waggish laugh, He thinks himself more wise by half. See _Crispin_, and his blouzy _Kate_, Attack the other Candidate! What joy he feels her head to lug! "Well done, my _Katy!_ coaxing pug!" But who is this pray?--_Abel Squatt_-- What has the honest Quaker got? Why, presents for each voter's lady, To make their interest sure and steady: For right and well their Honours know What things the Petticoat can do. Discordant sounds now grate the ear, For music's hir'd to raise the cheer; And fiddling _Nan_ brisk scrapes her strings, While _Thrumbo's_ bass loud echoing rings, And _Sawney's_ bagpipes squeaking trill "God save the King," or what you will. Music can charm the savage breast, And lull the fiercest rage to rest; But _Sawney's_ face bespeaks it plain, That vermin don't regard the strain; A creature, well to _Scotchmen_ known, Now nips him by the collar-bone: Ah, luckless louse! in ambush lie, Or, by St. _Andrew_, you must die! Ye vers'd in men and manners! tell Why Parsons always eat so well! Catch they the spirit from the Gown, To cram so many plate-fulls down? The feast is o'er with all the rest, But Mayor and Parson still contest: I'll hold a thousand!--Lay the bett-- The odds are on the Parson yet: Huzza! the Black-gown wins the day!-- The Mayor with oysters dies away!--[A] But softly, don't exult so fast, His spirit's noble to the last; His mouth still waters at the dish; His hand still holds his favourite fish: Bleed him the Barber-surgeon wou'd; He breathes a vein, but where's the blood? No more it flows its wonted pace, And chilly dews spread o'er his face: The Parson sweats; but be it told, The sweat is more from heat than cold: "Bring me the chafing-dish!" he cries; 'Tis brought; the savoury fumes arise: "My last tit-bit's delicious so; Can oysters vie with venison?"--No.