“Get thee back to silly Sheffield, twaddle on St. Stephen’s floor,
I require no further token of the rot your League hath spoken,
Fair Trade phalanx to be broken by experience sad and sore.
Take thy Beakey’s words to heart, who said Protection’s day was o’er!”
Quoth Dunraven, “Tax once more!”
And Dunraven, dolefuller waxing, still stands croaking of Corn-taxing,
Underneath the bust of Cobden, just above my study-door,
And his talk has all the seeming of a monomaniac’s dreaming—
Here I woke, and day was streaming through the lattice on the floor,
And I hope that no such vision e’er again my ears will bore