Or a knot of young roughs, whose right place were the cage,
Of their hustling and horse-play well-earning the wage,
Are not pleasant election-time sights.
If we’d been born Ducks, we might dabble in mud;
Or Dogs, we might snarl till it ended in blood;
But we claim to be rational creatures;
And Dizzy and Gladstone, and such pretty names,
We ought to know better than fling, to our shames,
Like mud, in each other’s flushed features.
Not a harsh thing Blues do, or a hard thing Buffs say,