Spare us, we implore thee.
And oh, ye silk aproned gentry, play not too much with the rights of Englishmen, or you will be swept from the floor of St. Stephen’s, and be compelled to earn an honest living.
And O most noble Secretary for Home affairs, we beg of you to throw up your present berth and turn teetotal spouter, for which you are more fit, and not try to rob a poor man of his beer by your new licencing dodge.
Spare us our beer, we beseech thee.
And Odger, stop up the mouths of our numerous oppressors with your lapstone of defiance, and spur up their shallow minds with your closing awl of reason, and remain for ever the true brick you always have been.
And O, Billy Gladstone, return to your duty as you promised the Electors of Greenwich and the whole of the working classes, or prepare to be sent to the imbecile ward of the nearest union.
And now may a hot joint and a pot of home brewed grace the tables of all who need it, and all our enemies be vaccinated by Old Nick on both shoulders.
So be it.
April, 1871.