Dear Tom, this black pot, which now foams with vile gall,
Out of which you now see lies abundantly fall,
Was once Toby Phillpots, as venal a soul
As e’er stretched his conscience t’wards interest’s goal,
In telling a lie ’twas his praise to excel,
And amongst Major Longbows he bore off the bell.
It chanced, as in London he sat at his ease,
In want of preferment, as hot as you please,
With a pen and some ink pamphleteering away,
That Wellington made him a Bishop one day;