Frustrate disunion, and let us gae free,
For its all up with Gladstone and his minis-trie.
The Light ’un is mounted, he rides up the street,
Bravo! cry the whigs, and the “rads” they retreat:
Whilst the Tory (douce mon) says just e’en let it be,
For we’ve had quite enough of Old Ver-bos-i-tie.
The horseman is loyal, in speech he is short,
He’s his country to serve, and has no other thought;
No seeker for pension, no time server he,
Nor lawyer, place hunter, nor peers pro-te-gée.