That’s the “go” for your Whigs—your retrenching old Whigs
Then, shout, &c.
In a word, round the throne we’ve stuck sisters and wives,
Our brothers and cousins fill bench, church, and steeple;
Assist us to stick in, at least for our lives,
And nicely “we’ll sarve out” Queen, Lords, ay, and People.
That’s the fun for your Whigs—your bed-chamber old Whigs!
Shout, shout, &c.
What was the reply to this pathetic, this generous appeal? Name it not at Woburn-abbey—whisper it not at Panshanger—breathe it not in the epicurean retreat of Brocket-hall! Tears, big tears, roll down our sympathetic checks as we write it. It was simply—“Cock-a-doodle-do!”