CHECK!
"We air governed too much."—Artemus Ward.
No! The old spirit is not dead,
Though long it, trance-like, slept,
While Peter Putright reared his head,
And venom'd vigil kept.
Their despot yearnings retrograde
Our tyrants label "Progress";
In specious robes of light array'd
They hide a horrid Ogress;
And many simple souls and true
By guile seduced to err,
Or fondly trusting something new,
Fell down and worshipp'd her.
And o'er their prostrate senses roll'd
A monstrous idol car,
Whose priests, in frenzy uncontroll'd,
Still know not where they are.
The doughtier freeman of the past
With wrath such bondage sees;
Who freedom won with pike and gun
From nobler foes than these.
Some bygone champions' pow'r benign
Our waning strength restores;
They forced from kings what we'd resign
To County Councillors.
The heirs of those who won our right
Inherit such a soul
They'd starkly fight by day and night,
But quite neglect to poll.
And so, in Law and Order's day
The brazen crew intrudes,
And London nigh becomes the prey
Of pedants, prigs, and prudes.