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;
He threw the bench of snoring bishops down,
And, with a withering look,
The Whig-denouncing trumpet took,
And made a speech so fierce and true,
Thrashing, with might and main, both friend and foe;