Whigs whom Fox and Petty led, Whigs who under Lord Grey fled, Welcome, though _three in a bed_, To the Treasury: Now’s the day, and now’s the hour―― Starve the _Tories_ out of power―― Cent. per cent. their wages lower, They cannot choose but flee. Who would be a grumbling knave, Though but half a loaf he have? Who prefer to toil and slave Without pay or fee? Who in spite of King and Laws, Faction’s darling weapon draws, Calls Hume’s and Bennet’s――Freedom’s cause, Let him follow _me_! Let Bennet boast his purity In politics and _pedigree_, Talk loud of his _nihil_-ity By long service won. Let Hume _dissect_ each place and fee, Each clerk, _although a brother he_, And prove that Cocker’s _Rule of Three_ Means only _Number One_. Whigs, with Carlile who condole, Whigs, with Hunt now cheek by jowl, Whigs, whom Tierney can’t control, And swears at horribly! Hume vows _he_ has made a _breach_, (_Not a pair_, as hirelings teach), Out of little Bennet’s reach, By _Financery_! Let Wilson rear his fallen crest, Let Log-Wood’s wisdom be confess’d, Leave Creevey’s virtues――_to be guess’d_, And Cam to form the line. Let Brougham be taken off the shelf, And make his fees from Michael’s pelf; Michael’s a _host_, sirs, in himself, So――let us in and dine! By our long and hopeless pains, By despair of office gains, We will draw our dearest veins, But we _will_ get in. Lay Lord Londonderry low, Placemen fell at every blow; Every placeman is our foe; Let us――_pray begin_. ―――― PARODY. _Written when part of the Duty was taken off Whiskey, in October_, 1823. Scots wha hae the duties paid; Scots wham whiskies aft made glad: Welcome, for the duty’s fled, And it shall be free! Now’s the time and now’s the hour; See the shades of evening lour; See the streams of toddy pour―― Pledge it three-times-three! Wha wad be a brandy slave? Wha wad shilpit claret lave? Wha of rum wad ever rave? When the whisky’s free? Wha for Scotia’s ancient drink, Will fill a bicker to the brink! Scotsmen wake or Scotsmen wink, Aquavitæ aye for me! By taxation’s woes and pains! By the smuggler’s ill-got gains! We shall raise our wildest strains, For it shall be free! Lay the big gin bottle low! In the fire the port wine throw! Let the tide of whiskey flow! Like liberty, aye free! ROBERT GILFILLAN. ―――― ROASTED SUCKING PIG.