XV. "Also, spite of Cobden's speeches Made in every foreign land, Which, 'tis true, the beastly natives Did not wholly understand, Hostile tariffs still are rising, Duties laid on twist and twine; And the wild pragmatic Germans Hail with shouts their Zollverein. XVI. "They, like madmen, seem to fancy That a nation, to be great, Should as surely shield the workman As the highest in the state: And they'd rather raise their taxes From the fruits of foreign labour, Than permit, as nature dictates, Each man to devour his neighbour. XVII. "So my golden dreams have vanished, All my hopes of gain are lost; Fresh accounts of glutted markets Come with each successive post. And I hear the clodpoles mutter As they pass me in the street, That they can't afford to purchase, At the present rate of wheat. XVIII. "Well, I care not--'tis no matter! My machines won't eat me up; And the people on the poor-rates Have my perfect leave to sup. Let the land provide subsistence For the children of the soil, I am forced to feed my engines With a daily cruise of oil. XIX. "Ha! a bright idea strikes me! 'Tis the very thing, huzzay! I have somewhere heard that cotton May be cultured in Bombay. Zooks! it is a splendid notion! Dicky Cobden is an ass. Wherefore should we pay the Yankees Whilst Great Britain holds Madras? XX. "Cotton would again be cultured If, with a benignant hand, Fair protection were afforded To the tillers of the land. 'Tis a sin and shame, we know not Where our real riches lie; Yes! they _shall_ have just protection, Else I'll know the reason why. XXI. "Surely some obscene oppression, Weighs the natives' labour down, Or their energies are palsied By a tyrant master's frown. To my heart the blood is gushing-- Righteous tears bedew my cheek-- Parliament shall know their burdens, Ere I'm older by a week! XXII. "Ha! those fine devoted fellows! 'Twere a black and burning shame, If we let the Yankees swamp them In their mean exclusive game. I have always held the doctrine, Since my public life begun, That it was our bounden duty To take care of Number One. XXIII. "What!--allow the faithful Indian To be crushed in cotton-growing? O forbid it, truthful Wilson! O refuse it, saintly Owen! Have their claims been disregarded? There is life within a mussel; And I've got a kind of bridle On the neck of Johnny Russell. XXIV.