They sung the beetle, or the mole,
The dying kid, or ass’s foal,
By cruel man permitted to expire.
But O, how altered was the sprightlier hour!
When Fox, the Parthian hero, rose to view;
He o’er the rest high-towering like a steeple
Leagued with a “Corresponding” crew,
Pledged in large floods of wine “their Majesties—the People”.
The royal tribe accept the proffered power.
Kings from the forge, dictators from the plough,