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 In which opinion I can’t quite concur No, wisest mortals are least apt to err Yet, for that head, should my desires incline In bran new tile, I’d offer four-and-nine.—

Mid such a motley mass of parvenus, The scourges puzzled where the last lash to use— Legion, the name of this besotted race May Charon waft each to his proper place,— The learned Magnates of the City Bench Who live on crime, in atmosphere of stench As Dowlan Leary—shall I call the main? By Jove ’tis Nick—don’t envy them their gain. The dirtiest office finds a ready mob And nightman’s wages,’ fall to nightman’s job, Poor Dowlan’s honest (rather apt to pry) Can’t say the same of his fraternity From childhood plodded on till now, to cry I’m paid for work and not ability That midday meal vexated health requires It is my dinner, and saves kitchen fires. The sword of Gideon flames in wild career The great Dundas Tactician Volunteer The gawky Scot and Diggins Chronicler. If such recruits as this, stiff Brown, can drill, He well deserves a testimonial Of solid gold:—not gilding of the pen If louts, like these, ere move like gentlemen—.

The Hero see of Constitution Hill Whose head grows lighter as his pockets fill, (Bold lucky private who secured the boy An idiot playing with unloaded toy)—— A grateful sovereign raised him from the ranks Place and promotion testify her thanks See now he stalks with consequential force, Learned too to ride!——a beggar on a horse,