WHIG-WAGGERIES.
The Whigs must go: to reign instead
The Tories will be call’d;
The Whigs should ne’er be at the head—
Dear me, I’m getting bald!
The Whigs! they pass’d that Poor Law Bill;
That’s true, beyond a doubt;
The poor they’ve treated very ill—
There, kick that beggar out!
The Whigs about the sugar prate!
They do not care one dump
About the blacks and their sad state—
Just please to pass the lump!
Those niggers, for their sufferings here,
Will angels be when dying;
Have wings, and flit above us—dear—
Why, how those blacks are flying!
The Whigs are in a state forlorn;
In fact, were ne’er so low:
They make a fuss about the corn—
My love, you’re on my toe!
The Whigs the timber duty say
They will bring down a peg;
More wooden-pated blockheads they!
Fetch me my wooden leg!