Their sanguine faces turn’d to blue.
Oh, Robert Bawn, why leave me pining, &c.
The pretty flowers were made to bloom, Bob;
The pretty moon to wax and wane;
A tidy wig was made for Brougham, Bob—
Ah! cruel, was it made in vain?
There’s wicked Campbell at me snarling;
He takes me for a rat, you see:
I wish you’d take me, Robert darling!
Then ratified my hopes would be.