You wave your paper bâton o’er the head
Of him who, like Olympian Jove, is seated there,
And guides your voice the thunder of the “Chair!”
Who ne’er,—when public dinner port began
To, Circe-wise, transmogrify the man,
Hath found the rising hiccup downward driven,
When, Toole! thy lungs this glorious toast have given—
“The Queen, with three times three!
“Hip, hip, hurrah!—Silence for a glee!”
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