LORD B——.
’Tis said of Lord B., none is keener than he
To spit a Wild Boar with éclât;
But he never gets near to the Brute with his spear,
He gives it so very much law.
TRAITORS’ AIMS.
Three traitors, Oxford—Francis—Bean,
Have missed their wicked aim;
And may all shots against the Queen,
In future do the same:
For why, I mean no turn of wit,
But seriously insist,
That if Her Majesty were hit,
No one would be so miss’d.
ON A CERTAIN LOCALITY.
Of public changes, good or ill,
I seldom lead the mooters,
But really Constitution Hill
Should change its name with Shooter’s!