And sighed when the language was “painful and free;”
For if Rads will threaten, then Tories must scold,
Though Europe be angry and ironclads old,
And patriots hate this spouting.
Three crowds of admirers they chortled and cheered,
For the Leaders went up, and their speeches “went down;”
And the Editors swear by Lord Beaconsfield’s beard
That the country is with them as well as the Town.
But though Tories and Radicals scream themselves red,
The sooner it’s over, the sooner to bed,