(On the Marquis of Salisbury and the Franchise Bill.)
I sing a song of foolishness, of Guy Faux, chief of sinisters,
Who fain would blow the Commons up, the Premier and his Ministers:
That is, he piles combustibles as he were game to do it;
Let’s hope he’ll be prevented, or he’ll be the first to rue it.
A sort of Guido Faux pour rire he seems for all his swaggering,
Displaying boylike rashness that to thoughtful men is staggering,
That is, it would be staggering, and Statesmen wiser, truer rile,
But that he’s played so many games, and most of them so puerile.
Although he’s bearded like the pard, and looks all fierce virility,