And henceforth like twin brothers live.
The frenzy seiz’d the feather’d race,
For (now when Pitt would mend the nation)
The crows on Captain Stephenson’s trees,
Sat, settling plans of reformation.
An aged Rook perch’d on a bough,
With hoary head and jetty wing,
His plumy neighbours round him drew,
And Britain’s fate he thus did sing.
“Listen, ye Crows, my brethren all,