You bet the eye of HARCOURT glistens,
And GLADSTONE reading with a grin,
Says, "Now I have him on the hip!"
This will not do, if we're to win.
Of course, dear Lord, 'twas but a slip,
But then you do make such a lot;
Explaining them away gets wearying.
You seem as though—of course, 'tis rot!—
Our Free Trade system you were querying.
That cock won't fight; Protection's dead,