3rd B.—Bexley snores; ’tis time, ’tis time,
1st B.—Round about the caldron go,
In the poisonous nonsense throw.
Bigot spite, that long hath grown,
Like a toad within a stone,
Sweltering in the heart of Scott
Boil we in the Brunswick pot.
All.—Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,
Eldon, talk, and Kenyon scribble.
2nd B.—Slaver from Newcastle’s quill