"No lamps shall blaze in this spacious hall,
But farthing rushlights, lank and small,
Some cook-shop's dining-room shall grace,
Where _Mister_ Mayor, with sword and mace,
And all the Corporation sinners,
By city contract clothed and fed,
Shall dine at eighteen pence a-head,
And feel quite grateful for their dinners.
While the armour-man, like a turtle starv'd.
Shall rattle his bones in his iron shell,
And no more shall feast on baron of beef,
But _stand_ content with the cook-shop smell!"