Hard is the fate of him who holds the Shares;
For when a slice of their rich gains I sought,
The pamper’d secretary only stares,
And tells me to go back to Capel Court.
Oh! take me to your comfortable Board;
Down is the Scrip—the Times are very cold!
Some of your premium you might afford,
For I’m let in, while you—for profits—sold.
Should I reveal the sources of your wealth,
I think that I could gibbet every name;