Stray Leaves from the Portfolios of Alisander the Seer, Andrew Whaup, and Humphrey Henkeckle Edited by Alexander Rodger |
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 | Stray Leaves from the Portfolios of Alisander the Seer, Andrew Whaup, and Humphrey Henkeckle |  |
SONG.
[Run, run! Tories and Tax-eaters]
Run, run! Tories and Tax-eaters,
Why don't you mind 'tis the fifth of November?
Run, run! Blackamoors' back-sweaters,
Else Whigs and Rads will get first to the Chamber;
Hundreds of voters, now,
Take to their trotters now,
All for the purpose of ousting each Tory,
Who, with a heavy sigh,
Well may set up the cry,
‘Ichabod!’—‘now is departed our glory.’
Why don't you mind 'tis the fifth of November?
Run, run! Blackamoors' back-sweaters,
Else Whigs and Rads will get first to the Chamber;
Hundreds of voters, now,
Take to their trotters now,
107
Who, with a heavy sigh,
Well may set up the cry,
‘Ichabod!’—‘now is departed our glory.’
Fly, fly, hide your diminished heads,
Shorn of their deckers, and cropt of their glory,
Fie, fie! Whigs are such finished blades,
Nobody now cares a fig for a Tory;
Into your corners, then,
Call your chief mourners, then,
Gird you with sackcloth, get ashes strewed o'er ye,
Howl out your howling, too,
Growl out your growling, too,
Gone,—and for ever, your power and your glory.
Shorn of their deckers, and cropt of their glory,
Fie, fie! Whigs are such finished blades,
Nobody now cares a fig for a Tory;
Into your corners, then,
Call your chief mourners, then,
Gird you with sackcloth, get ashes strewed o'er ye,
Howl out your howling, too,
Growl out your growling, too,
Gone,—and for ever, your power and your glory.
Moan, moan! all's at the devil, now,
Radical rebels have got the ascendance,
Groan, groan! what a sore evil, now,
Every low scullion bawls out independence;
What were you doing, then,
When you saw ruin, then,
Fierce as the fiery Simoom, coming o'er ye?
Well may you weep and wail,
But what will that avail,
‘Ichabod!’—‘now is departed your glory.’
Radical rebels have got the ascendance,
Groan, groan! what a sore evil, now,
Every low scullion bawls out independence;
What were you doing, then,
When you saw ruin, then,
Fierce as the fiery Simoom, coming o'er ye?
Well may you weep and wail,
But what will that avail,
‘Ichabod!’—‘now is departed your glory.’
5th November, 1833.
| Stray Leaves from the Portfolios of Alisander the Seer, Andrew Whaup, and Humphrey Henkeckle | |