O yes! ye swinish Multitude!
To our Newcastle sties repair:
Two whole fat beeves are barbecu'd,
So go and cram your gorges there.
Your mouths will water at the sight;
The oose your unshav'd chops run down;
Your dirty sleeves away will dight
The slobber of tobacco brown.
With cart-grease basted, dredg'd with dust,
The outsides burnt, the insides raw,
Next to some tit bit carrion must
Delight a hog's voracious maw.
Hey! to the Pants, where dribbling wine
And brewer's rot-gut beer distil;
With speed let every greedy swine
Swig what he can—aye, swig his fill.
Then to your grov'ling nature true,
Return to wallow in the mire;
And let the Corporate body view
The consummation they require.
Swineherds expect the brutes that run
To guzzle at their garbage feast,
Should compensate, and make them fun;
So hogs come on and play the beast!
"And grunt, ye pigs, with savage joy,
While stuffing full your craving maws,
Nor care if staves your skulls annoy,
But quickly move your greedy jaws.
While guzzling down your wishy-wash,
Squeak loud with make-believe affection;
And in the puddle kick and splash,
Nor shew one sign of disaffection.
Then, all ye lordly herds laugh loud,
And shake your portly paunches fine;
Shew to your dames the rabble crowd—
And having pray'd, retire to dine.
Then tell how the voracious pigs,
With greedy spite press'd to the trow,
And gave each other loyal digs,
Nor car'd for e'er a waddling sow.