Each, in his narrow row, supinely laid,
A silent band, the Country Members, sleep.
The pettish call of nonsense-breathing Pole,
Vansittart, tittering o’er his boxes red,
The shrill Charles Yorke, Sir Joseph, livelier soul,
No more can rouse them from their rugged bed.
Oft did the question to their influence yield;
Their vote, full oft, the Court’s designs hath broke;
How jocund was the Income-Tax repeal’d!
How bow’d the Malt-tax to their sturdy stroke!