A feller elected by groundlings, who can’t tell Madeira from Port,
Some sour-faced suburban Dissenter—he, MAGOG, may make us his sport,
Without being popped in the pillory! Proper old punishment that!
As all the old punishments was. We’re a-getting too flabby, that’s flat.
The gallows, the stocks, and the pillory kept rebel rascals in hor,
But now every jumped-up JACK CADE, or WAT TYLER can give us his jor
Hot-and-hot, without fear of brave WALWORTH’s sharp dagger, or even a shower
Of stones, rotten heggs, and dead cats. Yah! The People has far too much power
With their wotes, and free speech, and such fudge. Ah! if GLADSTONE, and ASQUITH, and BURNS,
And a tidy few more of their sort, in the pillory just took their turns,