The flouts and the sneers of these senators born,
And their impotent threats we can laugh them to scorn,
Arise, and like phantoms they’ll fade from our view,
For we are the million, and they are the few.
What think they, these Peers, in their arrogant pride?
Are we slaves that their hauteur can put us aside?
Do they think that their cunning we cannot requite,
When they’d filch with their left what they’d give with their right?
Rouse, brothers, rouse! ’tis our own that we claim,
And the power that they wield, why, it is but a name;