"Did we not denounce the landlords As a ravening locust crew? Did we not revile the yeomen, And the rough-shod peasants too? Clodpoles, louts, and beasts of burden, Asses, dolts, and senseless swine-- These were our familiar phrases In the days of auld-langsyne. VI. "And at length we gained the battle: Oh, how proudly did I feel, When the praise was all accorded To my brother chief by Peel! But I did not feel so proudly At the settling of the fee-- Cobden got some sixty thousand-- Not a stiver came to me! VII. "Well, they _might_ have halved the money-- Yet I know not--and who cares? After all, the free disposal Of the gather'd fund was theirs: And it is some consolation In this posture of affairs, To reflect that 'twas invested In the shape of railway shares! VIII. "O, away, ye pangs of envy! Wherefore dwell on such a theme, Since a second grand subscription Is, I know, a baseless dream? Haunt me not with flimsy fancies-- Soul, that should be great and free! Yet--they gave him sixty thousand, Not a pennypiece to me! IX. "But I threw my spirit forwards, As an eagle cleaves the sky, Glaring at the far horizon With a clear unflinching eye. Visions of transcendant brightness Rose before my fancy still, And the comely earth seemed girdled With a zone from Rochdale Mill. X. "And I saw the ports all opened, Every harbour free from toll: Countless myriads craving shirtings From the Indies to the pole. Lapland's hordes inspecting cotton, With a spermaceti smile, And Timbuctoo's tribes demanding Bright's 'domestics' by the mile! XI. "O the bliss, the joy Elysian! O the glory! O the gain! Never, sure, did such a vision Burst upon the poet's brain! Angel voices were proclaiming That the course of trade was free, And the merchants of the Indies Bowed their stately heads to me! XII. "Out, alas! my calculation Was, I know, too quickly made; Even sunlight casts a shadow, There is gloom in briskest trade. I forgot one little item-- Though the fact of course I knew, For I never had considered Where it was that cotton grew. XIII. "Wherefore in this northern valley, Where the ploughshare tears the sod, Spring not up spontaneous bushes Laden with the precious pod? What an Eden were this island, If beside the chimney-stalk Raw material might be gathered, Freely of an evening walk! XIV. "But alas, we cannot do it. And the Yankee--fiends confound him!-- Grins upon us, o'er the ocean, With his bursting groves around him. And these good-for-nothing Negroes Are so very slow at hoeing, That their last supply of cotton Will not keep our mills a-going.