My Whalley!
Turnbull no more, who still must rave,
And, none to answer, call him knave—
Insult the dead man in his grave?
My Whalley!
Who, by such wiles—friends not too true,
And enemies by no means few—
Rallied them all around me?—Who?
My Whalley!
Who thus, should the whole Order fail,