Now accepting, now refusing,
Till on the Admiralty pitch’d,
Still would that thought his speech prolong;
To gain the place for which he long had itch’d,
He call’d on Bobby still through all the song;
But ever as his sweetest theme he chose,
A sovereign’s golden chink was heard at every close,
And Pollock grimly smiled, and shook his powder’d wig.
And longer had he droned—but, with a frown
Brougham impatient rose;