While Whitbread, Calvert, Buxton all, kept up the price of beer, Sir, Young Yellow Lambton seem'd to think the poor were charged too dear, Sir; But, though he loves his countrymen, he'd not, to save their souls, Sir, Make any alteration in the present price of coals, Sir. Bow, wow, wow. Grey Bennet having got a list of members holding places, Began to foam of hospitals and of ophthalmic cases; When "scissors cut as well as knives," when patients should take blue pills, His oratory--"all my eye"--the dullest he of pupils. Bow, wow, wow. Then as for Davies, Lennard, Ellis, Hutchinson, and Creevy, Ricardo, Williams, Curwen, Smith, or Moses Bernal Levi; They've done as much as smirking Rice or Thanet's Pat Concannon, Or gaiter'd Michael Angelo, or stiff-neck'd Lord Dungannon. Bow, wow, wow. Then Mackintosh (poor Gerald's friend), who doles out legal knowledge Three times a week to Guinea-pigs at Haileybury College, Conceived the penal laws too hard on rogues of all descriptions, From those who only rob, to those who--carry off subscriptions. Bow, wow, wow. Great Matthew Wood, a citizen, who never can be idle, Brought forward as a mighty hit--the case of Jailor Bridle; Of several other things he spoke, the brightest he of Members, But what they were, nor you, nor I, nor any one remembers. Bow, wow, wow. At length, then, for the present, there's an end to all their labours, The Mountain Pack are now let loose to howl it with their neighbours; And so we bid them thus adieu, until the next campaign, Sir, When if they bark, or snap, or bite, we'll--whip 'em in again, Sir. Bow, wow, wow. GAFFER GREY. A SONG. (With alterations and additions) written by the late patriotic Whig Citizen, THOMAS HOLCROFT, and addressed to his Friend and Patron, the Head of all the Whigs. Ho!--Why do'st thou shiver and shake, Gaffer Grey? And why does thy nose look so blue? "'Tis the people grow cold, And I--prosy and old, And my speeches, they say, are not new, Well-a-day!" Then clap a new tail on the rump, Gaffer Grey, Or the Whiggamores must go to pot "Nay, but credit I've none, All the Grenvilles have run, Except Nugent--who's not worth the shot, Well-a-day!"