Did this fine old Common-Councilman, all of the present time.
Few names I wot, those guests had got, that England loves to claim,
But those the civic wards supplied did every bit the same,
And figged-out dames with cheeks in flames, did on the throne entrench
Who could not well speak English, not to say a word of French,
Nor those fine old Common Councilmen, all of the present time.
But “which there is,” (as they would say) a paper called The Times,
Which drags up by the roots, all old abuses, cheats, and crimes;
And when its heavy ordnance soon was pointed at Guildhall,
They quaked in dread, because they knew their power soon would fall,