Ha, who stands here?--'Tis Farmer _Rye_, A man of cunning, by the bye; In times like this a mighty stirrer,-- Of some small interest in the Borough. Which side? you ask--the question's well, But more, as yet, than he can tell. The _hosts_ of either party try; To both he casts a _knowing_ eye. "Sir, I'm commission'd by the 'Squire-- Your company they all desire: My house contains near half the town-- 'Tis just at hand, Sir;--'tis _The Crown._" Then t'other cries, "Sure I first spoke-- This inn is mine!--_The Royal Oak_-- Sir, here's his Honour's invitation; The greatest Patriot in the nation." Which party shall the voter take, Since both the same pretentions make? The same?--sure not--for see each hand! Aye, now he seems to understand: _The Crown_ Host fees him o'er his arm; But t'other tips the stronger charm. One, two, three, four--the jobb is done-- Troth, cunning _Fatty_, you have won; Success in that sly glance is shown; The honest Farmer's all your own: But don't exult; for, being loth To disoblige, he takes from both. Oh, _Britain_! favourite Isle of Heaven, When to thy Sons shall Peace be given? The treachery of the _Gallic_ shore Makes even thy wooden lions roar. That royal beast, who many a league At sea hath sail'd with vengeance big! And oft has scar'd the hostile coast, Tho' fix'd in _Inn-Yard_, like a post, Still keeps his furious power in use; Devouring of the _Flower-de-luce_. How certain those expanded paws! How dreadful those extended jaws! Behind him sits the Hostess fair, Counting her cash with earned care; While at the door the Grenadier Inspects her with a cunning leer; As who should say, "When we're alone, Some part of that will be my own!" But who are those two in the Bar? Guttlers I fancy--that they are; The fowl to Him's a noble feast; He sure makes mouths, to mock the beast; And t'other hopes to find relief, By eating half the round of beef. From _George_, who wears the _British_ crown, To the remotest country clown, The love of politics extends, And oft makes foes of nearest friends. The Cobler and the Barber there, That born to frown, and this to stare, Both positive, you need not doubt, Will argue till they both fall out. "Well," says the Tonsor, "now we'll try, Who's in the right, yourself or I: One moment let your tongue be still, Or else be judg'd by _Johnny Hill: Vernon_ he thought a glorious fellow, Which made him put up _Porto Bello_. I'll teach you reason, if I can-- I should though shave the Gentleman; But never mind it, let him wait;-- These bits of pipe the case shall state"--