With his white hair unbonneted the stout old chieftain comes;
No picnic in a park gives he—he bribes no local drums;
For shrewd men in the Corn Exchange have filled each vacant space.
“Now, hark!” he says, “I grant the peers till autumn’s session grace.”
And haughtily, in trumpet tones, he then the story tells,
And though he tries to calm the storm, behold you, how it swells!
Look how the hero of the fight lifts up his honoured head,
And with his magic, winged words strikes Tory falsehoods dead!
So spoke he when he put to shame, on that same Scottish field,
The Government that tried by fraud the Turkish crimes to shield.