You would think he had swallowed the New Streets Act.
The poor men in armour are not here to day,
Through last year’s exertion they sweated away;
They are selling fusees—it’s a very bad trade,
And all the poor horses into sausages are made.
There’s old Parson Spurgeon, as sly as a fox,
On a chair with two sticks, just like a Guy Faux;
With tracts in his hand, you soon will him spy,
And a dish of fine sprats and a tear in each eye.
There’s poor Gog and Magog, so it appears,