The Exile of St. Stephen’s.
A Parody.
There came to Old Sarum a poor ousted Tory,1
The tear in his eye it was beayy and big,2
A sigh heav’d his breast as he saw all his glory3
For ever eclipsed by his rival, the Whig.4
But Old Sarum attracted his warmest devotion,5
The purest of Boroughs in his Tory notion ;6
For once in the flow of his youthful emotion7
He chaunted the strain of Old Sarum go bragh.8
Oh, sad is my fate, (said the heart-broken stranger)9
The badger and fox to a burrow can flee ;10
But I have no shelter from Huntsmen and danger,11
For the devil a burrow remaineth for me.12
Oh, never again, with Stentorian powers,13
Shall I in St. Stephen’s stand spouting for hours,14
To cover Reformers with Billingsgate flowers,15
As I chaunted the strain of Old Sarum go bragh.16
Old Sarum, my borough, though sad and forsaken,17
In dreams I’ll revisit each weed-covered wall ;18
Revolution is come — and, if I’m not mistaken,19
Thou art not the only thing destined to fall.20
And thou, cruel fate, wilt thou never replace me21
On the Treasury Bench, where no bailiffs shall chase me ?22
Oh never again shall old Eldon embrace me ;23
Like me, revolution he’s doom’d to deplore.24
Oh, where is the Church now by infidels shaken ?25
Phillpots and Wellington weep for its fall ;26
Where is my sinecure ?— from me ’tis taken,27
And where’s peculation so dear to us all ?28
Oh my poor heart, quite abandoned by pleasure,29
No more shalt thou fatten on, sweet public treasure ;30
All hope is cut off by the d–d Russell measure,31
Which, to Tories like me, has been wormwood and gall.32
Yet still, all its fond recollections suppressing,33
One dying wish my fond bosom shall draw ;34
Old Sarum, a Tory bequeaths thee his blessing,35
Walls of my grandmother, Sarum go bragh.36
Buried and cold when this heart stills its motion,37
Greenly thou’lt flourish, as now I’ve a notion,38
Whilst Conservative Bards sing aloud with emotion,39
Sarum, sweet Borough ! Old Sarum go bragh !40