Behold, through sympathy of face, (In life a very common case) His Lordship gives the fidler wine! "Come, brother _Chinny!_ yours and mine:" And o'er a pretty girl confest, The Alderman, see! toasts "the best." Ye hearty cocks! who feel the gout, Yet briskly push the glass about, Observe, with crutch behind his chair, Your honest brother _Chalkstone_ there! His phiz declares he seems to strain; Perhaps the gravel gives him pain: But be it either that or this, One thing is certain--he's at * * * *, A wag, the merriest in the town, Whose face was never meant to frown, See, at his straining makes a scoff! And, singing, takes his features off; While clowns, with joy and wonder, stare, "Gad-zookers! _Roger_, look ye there!" The busy Clerk the Taylor plies, "Vote for his Honour, and be wise: These yellow-boys are all your own!" But he, with puritanic tone, Cries, "_Satan!_ take thy bribes from me; Why this were downright perjury!" His wife, with all-sufficient tongue, For rage and scandal glibly hung, Replies, "Thou blockhead! gold refuse, When here's your child in want of shoes!" But hark! what uproar strikes the ear! Th' opposing mob, incens'd, draw near: Their waving tatter'd ensigns see! Here "Liberty and Property:" A label'd _Jew_ up-lifted high; There "Marry all, and multiply." These, these, are patrotic scenes! But not a man knows what he means. The jordan drives their zeal to cool, With added weight of three-legg'd stool; But all in vain; and who can't eat, Now sally out the foe to beat; For glory be the battle try'd; Huzza! my boys, the _yellow_ side. Observe the loyal work begin, And stones and brick-bats enter in! That knocks a rustic veteran down; This cracks the Secretary's crown; His minute-book, of special note, For every sure, and doubtful vote, Now tumbles; ink the table dyes, And backward poor Pill-Garlick lies. The Butcher, one who ne'er knew dread, A Surgeon turns for t'other's head; His own already broke and bound, Yet with _pro patria_ decked around. Behold what wonders gin can do, External and internal too! He thinks a plaster but a jest; All cure with what they like the best: Pour'd on, it sooths the patient's pain; Pour'd in, it makes him fight again. His toes perchance pop out his shoe, Yet he's a patriot through and through; His lungs can for his party roar, As loud as twenty men, or more. Ye courtiers! give your _Broughton_ praise; The hero of your eleven days, 'Tis his to trim th'opposers round, And bring their standard to the ground. The waiting-boy, astonish'd, eyes What gin the new-turn'd quack applies; And fills a tub, that glorious punch May make amends for blow and hunch. But stop, my lad, put in no more,