The Whigs must sigh, the Tories roar,
And shrieks the new M.P.
Yon tax they’ve taken off the malt,
We follow in its flight,
Farewell! ’twere vain to try and halt,
My premiership, good night.
With thee, my Brough’m, I’ll swiftly go
And some new scheme design,
Nor care what shifts they put us to,
So ’tis not to resign.