Against no form the watchful peeler rubs
Where, just before, men filed to left, or right,
And lobby tinklings stirred the distant clubs.
* * * * *
“The catty “call”—of incensed breathing born,
The shallow tittering from the empty head,
The “cock-a-doodle-do,” the nasal horn,
No more are heard—their authors are a-bed.
Oft did the Commons to our pickle yield,