And what had caused this mighty vapour? A dirty fragment of a paper, That in his rambles he had found, Lying neglected on the ground; A relic of the Morning Post, Two tattered columns at the most, But which our irritated swine (Derived from Learned Toby’s line) Digested easy as his meals, Like any quidnunc Cit at Peel’s. He read, and mused, and pored and read, His shoulders shrugg’d, and shook his head; Now at a line he gave a grunt, Now at a phrase took sudden stunt, And snorting turn’d his back upon it, But always came again to con it; In short he petted up his passion, After a very human fashion, When Temper’s worried with a bone She’ll neither like nor let alone. At last his fury reach’d the pitch Of that most irritating itch, When mind and will, in fever’d faction, Prompt blood and body into action; No matter what, so bone and muscle May vent the frenzy in a bustle; But whether by a fight or dance Is left to impulse and to chance. So stood the Boar, in furious mood Made up for any thing but good; He gave his tail a tighter twist, As men in anger clench the fist, And threw fresh sparkles in his eye From the volcano in his fry-- Ready to raze the parish pound, To pull the pigsty to the ground, To lay Squire Giles, his master, level, Ready, indeed, to play the devil. So, stirr’d by raving demagogues, I’ve seen men rush, like rabid dogs, Stark staring from the Pig and Whistle, And like his Boarship, in a bristle, Resolved unanimous on rumpus From any quarter of the compass; But whether to duck Aldgate Pump, (For wits in madness never jump) To liberate the beasts from Cross’s; Or hiss at all the Wigs in Ross’s; On Waithman’s column hang a weeper; Or tar and feather the old sweeper; Or break the panes of landlord scurvy, And turn the King’s Head topsy-turvy; Rebuild, or pull down, London Wall; Or take his cross from old Saint Paul; Or burn those wooden Highland fellows, The snuff-men’s idols, ‘neath the gallows! None fix’d or cared--but all were loyal To one design--a battle royal.