But few of them weep that Dame Fortune’s wild whim
Has upset Lambeth’s bête-noir, Sir “Jamie” Clarke Lawrence.
And Power, Ciceronian O’Connor? Alack!
Where was Kennington’s wit when, though loving, she lost him?
Well he, like poor Bo-peep’s strayed sheep, will come back
To the seat which his pluck, for the season, hath cost him.
But Wolff! Ah, Sir Henry, ’tis pitiful work.
To “Shoe the Gray Goose” Eastward-Ho you were summoned,
And while you were wasting your time with the Turk,
Fickle Portsmouth played jilt. ’Tis too bad, my dear Drummond!