When virtue suddenly became the rage,
And wiped George Hudson out of fashion’s scroll.
Full many a noble Lord who once serene
The feasts at Albert Gate was glad to share,
For tricks he blushed not at, or blushed unseen,
Now cuts the Iron King with vacant stare.
For those who, mindful of their money fled,
Rejoice in retribution, sure though late—
Should they, by ruin to reflection led,
Ask Punch to point the moral of his fate,