GAFFER GREY.
A Song.
(With alterations and additions) written by the late patriotic Whig Citizen, Thomas Holcroft, and addressed to his Friend and Patron, the Head of all the Whigs.
Ho!—Why do'st thou shiver and shake,
Gaffer Grey?
And why does thy nose look so blue?
"'Tis the people grow cold,
And I—prosy and old,
And my speeches, they say, are not new,
Well-a-day!"
Then clap a new tail on the rump,
Gaffer Grey,
Or the Whiggamores must go to pot
"Nay, but credit I've none,
All the Grenvilles have run,
Except Nugent—who's not worth the shot,
Well-a-day!"
Then hie to the house—you know where,
Gaffer Grey,
And steal up the stairs—you know when.
"No, 'though roughshod, I swore
To march in, through the door,
I shall ne'er pass that threshold again,
Well-a-day!"
There's Brougham, who can shift, like his nose,
Gaffer Grey,
Who browbeats the Parliament down.
"Pshaw, he shifts for himself,
Whilst he pockets the pelf,
And would sell the whole squad for a gown,
Well-a-day!"
There's the Patriot in Ilchester Jail,
Gaffer Grey,
Who will talk by the job—or the day.
"He's a low-minded carl,
Fit only to snarl,
And just as well out of the way,
Well-a-day!"
There's Hume with his tots and his vots,
Gaffer Grey,
With his scalpel cuts through thick and thin.
"Oh, he's worse than the other,
He'd cut up his brother,
If only to keep his hand in,
Well-a-day!"
Little Michael has beeves and fat ale,
Gaffer Grey,
Buona Roti—surnamed by the pack.
"His dinners be d——d;
When the starvelings are cramm'd,
Duncannon can't whistle them back,
Well-a-day!"
There's Creevy, your crony of old,
Gaffer Grey,
Who shew'd up the Board of Control.
"He's heavy and lame,
And his speeches the same,
Are uncommonly prosy and dull,
Well-a-day!"
There's Wooler, the Bibliopole bold,
Gaffer Grey,
Who at laws and at lawgivers laughs.
"Very well in his way,
But I beg leave to say,
I've a mortal aversion to Raffs,
Well-a-day!"
There's Bennet the Arch Philanthrope,
Gaffer Grey,
Who weeps for man, woman, and brute.
"He may weep as he will,
If he'll keep his tongue still;
But your best sort of weeper's—a Mute!
Well-a-day!"
There's Lambton, a sure card at hand,
Gaffer Grey,
Not given to blush or to flinch.
"He's a good sort of fellow,
Though rather too yellow,
And only of use at a pinch,
Well-a-day!"
There's Lushington, Denman, and Co.,
Gaffer Grey,
And their friend—what's his name—Mister Wood;
"No—the sweet Queen is gone,
Their vocation is done,
And they cannot do harm, if they would,
Well-a-day!"
There's Sefton the Good!—four-in-hand,
Gaffer Grey,
And there's Grosvenor the Great!—from his beeves.
"One wants for his head
A new lining, 'tis said;
And the other—some strawberry leaves,
Well-a-day!"
There's Ossulston, gallant as high,
Gaffer Grey,
Can prove his descent—without flaw.
"He was named for a stick,
'Twas a sad scurvy trick,
For he look'd like—a Frog with a Straw!
Well-a-day!"
Your chance is but bad, I confess,
Gaffer Grey,
But freedom may still be your butt.
"Talk of freedom—my eye!
If in the State Pie
I could get but a finger, I'd cut,—
Happy day!"
The times are not yet come to that,
Gaffer Grey.
What then?—"Whilst there's life there is hope:
Though John Bull turns his back
On the talented Pack,
You may still get Pat Bull from the Pope
By your play!"