Descend from your Tilburies, Gents of the long robe,
Read briefs—for their steps to the Woolsack they bend:
The depths of your science, ye Doctors, they’ll soon probe,
With old Esculapius the Blues would contend!
Their clack is resounding,
With hard words abounding,
Steam guns their weapons, which cause great disorder.
By Gas they’re enlightened—
By nothing they’re frightened,
The dauntless Blue Stockings who pass’d o’er the Border.