Higher in parts and place appears His venal race of Garretteers; A starving, mercenary tribe, That sell, for every bidder's bribe, Their scantling wits to purchase bread And always drive the briskest trade, When _Faction_ sounds with loudest din, To bring some new Pretender in. This tribe from their ærial station, Deluge with scandal all the nation: Below contempt, secure from shame, Sure not to forfeit any fame, Indifferent what part to choose, With nothing but their ears to lose. Not Virtue on a throne can be From tongues below resentment free. Of human things such the distraction, With Liberty we must have Faction. But look behind the _Temple-gate_, Near the thick, clumsy, stinking seat, Where _London's_ pageant sits in state; What wild, ferocious shape is there, With raging looks and savage air? Is that the monster without name, Whom human art could never tame, From _Indian_ wilds of late brought o'er, Such as no _Briton_ saw before? I mean the monster _P_* * * presented To the late King, who quickly sent it, Among his other beasts of prey, Safe in a cage with lock and key. Some said he was of _British_ blood, Though taken in an _Indian_ wood. If he should thus at large remain, Without a keeper, cage, or chain, Raging and roaming up and down, He may set fire to half the town. Has he not robb'd the _Bank?_--Behold, In either hand, what bags of gold! Monsters are dangerous things let loose: Old _Cambrian_, guard thy mansion-house. But here, what comes? A loaded car, Stuff'd, and high pil'd, from _Temple-Bar_. The labouring wretches hardly move The load that totters from above. By their wry faces, and high strains, The cart some lumpish weight contains. '_North Britons_--Gentlemen--come, buy, There's no man sells so cheap as I. Of the _North Briton_ just a score, And twenty _Monitors_ or more, For just one penny---- _North Britons--Monitors_--come, buy, There's no man sells so cheap as I.' '_North Britons! Monitors!_ be d----'d! Is that the luggage you have cramm'd Into your stinking cart? Be gone, Or else I'll burn them every one.' 'Good Sir, I'm sure they are not dear, The paper's excellent, I swear-- You can't have better any where. Come, feel this sheet, Sir--please to choose-- They're very soft, and fit for use. All very good, Sir, take my word-- As cheap as any can afford. The Curate, Sir, Lord! how he'll foam! He cannot dine 'till we get home. The Colonel too, altho' he be So big, so loud, so proud, d'ye see, Will have his share as well as he.'