To a new one as wretched as barren of nous,
And oh! if there be an Inferno on earth,
It’s the house! it’s the house!
Here Tories are raving—their voices are high,
As the bray of a jack-ass, or yelp of a hound,
And dirty their spleen as that rain from the sky,
Which turns into mud as it falls on the ground.
Oh! think what the conscience or mind must be worth,
When the speech and the satire are weak as a louse,
Then own if there be an Inferno on earth,