There's somewhat savory in the wind-- Those Courtiers, Friend, have not yet din'd: Their true ally, grave _Puzzle-cause_, A man right learned in the laws, (Whose meagre clerk below can't venture, And wishes damn'd the long indenture), As custom bids, prepares the dinner, For, though they've lost, yet he's the winner. See, the domestic train appear! Old _England_ bringing up the rear! Curse on their stomachs, who can't brook Good _English_ fare, from _English_ cook! Observe lank Monsieur, in amaze, Upon the valiant soldier gaze! "Morbleu! you love de fight, ve see, But dat is no de dish for ve." Behold, above, that azure garter-- Look, now he whispers, like a tartar; By button fast he holds the other, The lost election makes a pother. "All this parade is idle stuff-- We know our interest well enough-- We still support what we espouse; We'll bring the matter in the _House_." Of some wise man, perhaps philosopher, (If not, it flings the vice a gloss over) I've read, who, Maudlin-like, would cry Soon as he 'ad drunk his barrel dry: Yon fellow, certain as a gun, Of that Philosopher's a Son: Long as the pot the beer could scoop, He scorn'd, like swine, to trough to stoop; But, now 'tis shallow, kneels devout, Eager to suck the last drop out. Vociferous Loyalty's a-dry, And, lo, they bear a fresh supply! That all the mob may roar applause, And know they'll never starve the cause. When grey-mare proves the better horse, The man is mis'rable of course; That Taylor leads a precious life-- Look at the termagant his wife, She pays him sweetly o'er the head;-- "Get home, you dog, and get your bread; Shall I have nothing to appear in, While you get drunk electioneering?"