Since he took the portfolio, but yesterday hawked about;
How, shoulder to wheel, he went through at a run,
The work that all others had dawdled and talked about.
The grind for "six moons" to the wife-beating brute;
The foot on the dens where turf-gamblers would cozen;
The foul furnace throats made to swallow their soot;
The yet fouler charnel yards closed by the dozen.
The lecture your Lordship's Scotch friends would not print,
Who against Sabbath-breaking so tipsily hiccup;
And the scourge he was knotting, by way of a hint