What a dolt was I to credit All these wild free-trading schemes! Cobden’s calico predictions, Porter’s importation dreams! For I loathed the mean alliance, Even when I chose to wheel In the wake of him who led us, Pinning foolish faith to Peel. Was I mad, to place my honour In this most disgusting fix? Half the world was rather crazy In the days of Forty-six. O the happy times of premiums! O the balmy touch of scrip! Would that I had sold my bargains Ere they had me on the hip! Every day a new allotment Promised shining heaps of gold; Every day the mounting market Swelled my hopes a hundredfold. I remember old Sir Robert, With his shirt-sleeves rolled on high, Lust of speculation gleaming In his gray and greedy eye; Turning sods with silver shovel, Celebrating that event With a speech on competition At the opening of the Trent. I have dined with royal Hudson, And may dine again, perhaps, Should another exaltation Follow on this drear collapse. All had drunk the wine of gambling, All had quaffed the share champagne, Wisdom’s warnings were rejected, Prudence preached to us in vain. Madness, frenzy, lust of riches, Reigned within the minds of all, That, we thought, must answer Peter Which had served the turn of Paul. If, by scorning honest labour, Men made fortunes in a trice, What might be the luck of Britain, Casting with Free-traders’ dice? I am strongly of opinion— Looking to my country’s good— That I’ve stuck by him of Tamworth Rather longer than I should. As concerning next election, I’ve received some pregnant hints, Both from country correspondents, And the leading public prints. Cultivation’s at a discount, Rents are very slowly paid: Some aver that sly Sir Robert Has contrived to coin his spade; Neither is there much progression In the wool and cotton trade.