The life-blood wrung alike from great and mean
Squandered in titles, or a trickster’s spoil!
The mild Hindoo, the brave Zulu,
To vex and harass these we waste;
But prostrate trade, and bills unpaid,
Naught of the wild profusion taste;
While venal voters of the false Buccleuch
Quell our indignant voice, and mask our utterance true,
More might have followed; but he felt it rain,
Hailed the first cab, and left by special train.