And round the lost Council each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself Liberal still.
It is not when Gladstone and Lowe are thine own,
And thy Childers confiscates the pens
That the ferment and fume of a Bright can be thrown,
Who can roar down the biggest of Bens—
Oh! the tongue of the Demagogue never can rest,
But as glibly runs on to the close,
For the Cabinet’s glories are brief at the best,
And a mob may be useful, who knows.