Lest I should find myself and staff out of Office some time about the end of the year. I’ve done nothing so long but stand under the magnificent portico Of Somerset House, that I don’t know what I should do if I was for to go! What the electors are at, I can’t make out, upon my soul, For it’s a law of natur’ that the whig should be atop of the poll. I’ve had a snug berth of it here for some time, and don’t want to cut the connexion; But they do say the Whigs must go out, because they’ve NO OTHER ELECTION; What they mean by that, I don’t know, for ain’t they been electioneering— That is, they’ve been canvassing, and spouting, and pledging, and ginning, and beering. Hasn’t Crawford and Pattison, Lyall, Masterman, Wood, and Lord John Russell, For ever so long been keeping the Great Metropolis in one alarming bussel? Ain’t the two first retired into private life—(that’s the genteel for being rejected)? And what’s more, the last four, strange to say, have all been elected. Then Finsbury Tom and Mr. Wakley, as wears his hair all over his coat collar, Hav’n’t they frightened Mr. Tooke, who once said he could beat them Hollar? Then at Lambeth, ain’t Mr. Baldwin and Mr. Cabbell been both on ‘em bottled By Mr. D’Eyncourt and Mr. Hawes, who makes soap yellow and mottled! And hasn’t Sir Benjamin Hall, and the gallant Commodore Napier, Made such a cabal with Cabbell and Hamilton as would make any chap queer? Whilst Sankey, who was backed by a Cleave-r for Marrowbone looks cranky, Acos the electors, like lisping babbies, cried out “No Sankee?” Then South’ark has sent Alderman Humphrey and Mr. B. Wood, Who has promised, that if ever a member of parliament did his duty—he would! Then for the Tower Hamlets, Robinson, Hutchinson, and Thompson, find that they’re in the wrong box, For the electors, though turned to Clay, still gallantly followed the Fox; Whilst Westminster’s chosen Rous—not Rouse of the Eagle—tho’ I once seed a Picture where there was a great big bird, very like a goose, along with a Leda. And hasn’t Sir Robert Peel and Mr. A’Court been down to Tamworth to be reseated? They ought to get an act of parliament to save them such fatigue, for its always—ditto repeated. Whilst at Leeds, Beckett and Aldam have put Lord Jocelyn into a considerable fume, Who finds it no go, though he’s added up the poll-books several times with the calculating boy, Joe Hume. So if there’s been no other election, I should like to find out What all the late squibbing and fibbing, placarding, and blackguarding, losing and winning, beering and ginning, and every other et cetera, has been about! TO THE BLACK-BALLED OF THE UNITED SERVICE. Black bottles at Brighton, To darken your fame; Black Sundays at Hounslow, To add to your shame. Black balls at the club, Show Lord Hill’s growing duller: He should change your command To the guards of that colour.