Oh God he cried I’ve no pretence,
To think election sure;
Cleanse, cleanse my soul, ere I go hence
And join me with the pure.
POLITICAL SURGEON.
Tune—“The Exciseman.”
In a country village that’s near,
A very good market for beef;
Thro’ a lane a neat mansion appear,
Whose owner can give you relief.
No one in the place doubts his skill,
Due attention he pays to the poor,
To them he’ll diminish his bill;
If adversity stands at the door.
I fear he brain fevers increase,
To those that are fond of the state,
To upbraid it he seldom will cease,
And will its mishaps glad relate.
To men that are loyal and brave;
Such stuff will but faintly go down,
All judge it the trick of a knave,
That endeavour to harass the crown.
When first to the village he went;
All pensions and placemen were bad,
Of doctrine so foul he’s relent,
By vanity’s rays he’s misled.
When a man is well known to be poor,
Such gammon he’ll cram in your ear,
Yet when the wolf’s fled from his door,
He a different thing will appear.