O the Elections are coming, what doings there’’ll be, Such gutting and guzzling you never did see, There’ll be cheap beef and ale for poor voters just then, With Wine, Turtle, and Venison for gentlemen, There will be open houses in every street, Where the Birds of a feather may daily meet, And sly Booots attends to collect all their senses; Crying, landlord, fill up now, and damn all expenses. Then to see the great nobs, who a canvassing go, In the house, or the garret, or the cellar below, Altho’ by infection he dreads his sweet life, He’ll shake hands with the cobbler or kiss the sweep’s wife, Or perhaps he will dandle the sweet little child, Till he suddenly finds that his trowsers are spoiled, Tho’ his heart it is ready to come up at his throat, Yet he’d do ten times more to secure a vote. And then at the last, when all other means fail, To catch them they try to put salt on their tails, Don’t think I mean bribery, my good sir, dear no! They only give friends a small present or so. Or perhaps if you have a nice Bird, Dog, or Cat. To sell, they will give you five sovereigns for that, He’s a very good customer, that is quite true, So I’ll vote for ----, pray what less can I do? O the Election is coming, what meeting and speeching, All their knavish tricks to all the world teaching; What rogues, fools, and shufflers, each other they call, And stick their good characters up on the wall. Each party seem ready the other to mill, About rural policy, or the new poor-law bill. While the Elections are on, what patriots they are, But when they get in, the d----l may care. _LAMENTATION ON THE DEATH_ OF THE Duke of Wellington. Britannia now lament for our Hero that is dead, That son of Mars, brave Wellington, alas, his spirit’s fled. That general of a hundred fights, to death he had to yield, Who brav’d the cannons’ frightful blaze upon the battle field. CHORUS. Britannia weep and mourn, his loss all may deplore, That conquering hero Wellington, alas, he is no more. The destructive wars of Europe does not disturb him now, Great laurels of bright victory sit smiling on his brow, For the burning sands of India he trac’d with valour bright, And against that daring Tippoo Saib so valiant he did fight. Where cannons loud did rattle, spread death and sad dismay, The Duke was always ready with his men to lead the way. Fortified cities he laid low, that general of renown, Intrenchments and their batteries he quickly levelled down. Thro’ Portugal and Spain his enemy did pursue, With the veteran sons of Britain he march’d to Waterloo, And there he made a noble stand upon that blood-stain’d day, And fought the French so manfully and made them run away.