“Seven’s the main.”— CROCKFORD.
Pity the sorrows of a class of men,
Who, though they bow to fashion and frivolity,
No fancied claims or woes fictitious pen,
But wrongs ell-wide, and of a lasting quality.
Oppress’d and discontented with our lot,
Amongst the clamorous we take our station;
A host of Ribbon Men — yet is there not
One piece of Irish in our agitation.
We do revere Her Majesty the Queen,
We venerate our Glorious Constitution;
We joy King William’s advent should have been,
And only want a Counter Revolution.
’Tis not Lord Russell and his final measure,
’Tis not Lord Melbourne’s counsel to the throne,
’Tis not this Bill, or that, gives us displeasure,
The measures we dislike are all our own.
The Cash Law the “Great Western” loves to name;
The tone our foreign policy pervading;
The Corn Laws — none of these we care to blame,
Our evils we refer to over-trading.
By Tax or Tithe our murmurs are not drawn;
We reverence the Church — but hang the cloth!
We love her ministers — but curse the lawn!
We have, alas! too much to do with both!
We love the sex:— to serve them is a bliss!
We trust they find us civil, never surly;
All that we hope of female friends is this,
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