 | May Fair |  |
There Wh*cl*ffe counts no more his bets,
J--- his mortgages forgets;
Sl*g* with “both his hands in mortar,”
Scarce feels himself a shilling shorter;
The C*h*e*l,—S*ft*n,—V*r*l---,
No more take measure of a psalm;
R---d no more, with hair on end,
Hears all the world refuse to lend;
Nay, even the Lord of Donna Clara
Takes comfort with “Che sarà sarà,”
And wishes only hang'd the pack,
From whom no penny will come back.
How oft we've sat 'twixt sun and sun,
Nor felt the hour, my Cl*r*nd*n.
True Tories, telling every hit
That men of Fox e'er got from Pitt;
But keeping under triple locks,
What men of Pitt got back from Fox.
The B*nt*ncks, F*tzr*ys, C*v*nd*shes,
All look like—men that had their wishes;
And all is blood, bone, jest, and song,
Till morning whips the night along.
J--- his mortgages forgets;
Sl*g* with “both his hands in mortar,”
Scarce feels himself a shilling shorter;
The C*h*e*l,—S*ft*n,—V*r*l---,
No more take measure of a psalm;
R---d no more, with hair on end,
Hears all the world refuse to lend;
Nay, even the Lord of Donna Clara
Takes comfort with “Che sarà sarà,”
And wishes only hang'd the pack,
From whom no penny will come back.
95
Nor felt the hour, my Cl*r*nd*n.
True Tories, telling every hit
That men of Fox e'er got from Pitt;
But keeping under triple locks,
What men of Pitt got back from Fox.
The B*nt*ncks, F*tzr*ys, C*v*nd*shes,
All look like—men that had their wishes;
And all is blood, bone, jest, and song,
Till morning whips the night along.
| May Fair | |