Oh! the dear and artful Tories;
They alone perceive, ’tis clear,
Taxes tend to England’s glories.
The Whigs became the poor man’s foe,
Mix’d ashes in his cup of sorrow;
Nor thought the pauper’s “lot of woe,”
Perchance might be their own to-morrow.
The Tories said they were his friend,
That they abhorr’d procrastination;
So give—till next July shall end—