You’ll find, though each bump in their skulls is in order;
The organ of Prying
All others defying,
Stands first in the Blues who are crossing the Border.
Strain every nerve, then, all ye who have place and sway,
From Wellington down to the City Recorder.
Ye’ll be found bunglers, in office unfit to stay,
If the Blue Stockings come over the Border.
Stand to your posts, ye adepts in Astronomy,
A comet they’ll see whilst your glass ye arrange—