Well, that, sir, is the racket; and the more the sin and shame Of them that help to stir it up, and propagate the same; Instead of vocal ditties, and the social flowing cup,-- But they’ll be the House’s ruin, or the shutting of it up, With their riots and their hubbubs, like a garden full of bears, While they’ve damaged many articles and broken lots of squares, And kept their noble Club Room in a perfect dust and smother, By throwing _Morning Heralds_, _Times_, and _Standards_ at each other; Not to name the ugly language Gemmen oughtn’t to repeat, And the names they call each other--for I’ve heard ’em in the street-- Such as Traitors, Guys, and Judases, and Vipers, and what not, For Pasley and his divers ain’t so blowing-up a lot. And then such awful swearing!--for there’s one of them that cusses Enough to shock the cads that hang on opposition ‘busses; For he cusses every member that’s agin him at the poll, As I wouldn’t cuss a donkey, tho’ it hasn’t got a soul; And he cusses all their families, Jack, Harry, Bob or Jim, To the babby in the cradle, if they don’t agree with him. Whereby, altho’ as yet they have not took to use their fives, Or, according as the fashion is, to sticking with their knives, I’m bound there’ll be some milling yet, and shakings by the collars, Afore they choose a Chairman for the Glorious Apollers! To be sure it is a pity to be blowing such a squall, Instead of clouds, and every man his song, and then his call-- And as if there wasn’t Whigs enough and Tories to fall out, Besides politics in plenty for our splits to be about,-- Why, a Cornfield is sufficient, sir, as anybody knows, For to furnish them in plenty who are fond of picking crows-- Not to name the Maynooth Catholics, and other Irish stews, To agitate society and loosen all its screws; And which all may be agreeable and proper to their spheres,-- But it’s not the thing for musicals to set us by the ears. And as to College larning, my opinion for to broach, And I’ve had it from my cousin, and he driv a college coach, And so knows the University, and all as there belongs, And he says that Oxford’s famouser for sausages than songs, And seldom turns a poet out like Hudson that can chant, As well as make such ditties as the Free and Easies want, Or other Tavern Melodists I can’t just call to mind-- But it’s not the classic system for to propagate the kind, Whereby it so may happen as that neither of them Scholars May be the proper Chairman for the Glorious Apollers!