The Whigs must go: to reign instead
The Tories will be call'd;
The Whigs should ne'er be at the head--
_Dear me, I'm getting bald_!
The Whigs! they pass'd that Poor Law Bill;
That's true, beyond a doubt;
The poor they've treated very ill--
_There, kick that beggar out_!
The Whigs about the sugar prate!
They do not care one dump
About the blacks and their sad state--
_Just please to pass the lump_!
Those niggers, for their sufferings here,
Will angels be when dying;
Have wings, and flit above us--dear--
_Why, how those blacks are flying_!
The Whigs are in a state forlorn;
In fact, were ne'er so low:
They make a fuss about the corn--
_My love, you're on my toe_!
The Whigs the timber duty say
They will bring down a peg;
More wooden-pated blockheads they!
_Fetch me my wooden leg_!
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