PETER.
Well, Zekil, hasto' yerd o' th' reawt,
'At's takken place at Lundun?
King George has turn't hissel' obeawt,
An' Ministers are undun;
Sin' Liverpool laid by his shoon,
O' nailt wi' gowden clinkers,
The growl has to a battle groon,
An' Cannin's bitten th' blinkers.
ZEKIL.
An' what by that? he'r nere a friend
To my poor hungry belly;
An' though he shift, unless he mend,
He's still a nowty felley.
'No honest mon,' sed Billy Pit,
'Con ston i' sitch a station;
An' he who creeps or flies to it,
Man sacrifice the nation.'
PETER.
Pshaw! none o' thy reformin' slang,
Suspicious an' despondin',
I tell thee, things win goo none wrang
When Cannin' gets his hond in.
He'll make the Yankees an' the Dons
Buy cals an' calimancos;
Put th' Kurn-bill i' the divel's hons
'At it no moor may dank us.
ZEKIL.
O' that may be I dunna deawt,
He's thick enoof wi' Sooty;
He'll bring moor marrokles obeawt
I'th' way o' wage an' booty.
But con he satisfy the debt,
Au' staunch thoose drainin' penshuns?
Till then, a trade we ne'er shall get
For eawr 'sublime invenshuns.'
PETER.
He'll geythur reawn'd him o' the peaw'r
An' patronage o' th' nation;
Ther's Lord MacCringe and Lord MacKeawr
Mun each fill op a station;
Whilst Sir John Cop' mun sit at top,
Upon a seck o' clippins;
Eh! Zekil, that's a glorious shop—
Wot carvings an' wot drippins!
ZEKIL.
He geythur ought? he'll geythur newt:
Hooa tarries to be groated!
These Tories are like summer brids,
Wi' him they'n not be sawted.
An' Wellinton has laft the drill,
An' Lowther's off i' anger;
An' Peel has bowt a spinnin' mill,
An' Eldon deawts no langer.
PETER.
An' wot cares he, if o' that swarm
Desart his cause, an hate him?
One jink o' gowd will theawsuns arm
Prepar't to vindicate him.
O'er brucks an' briggs dun gallop Whigs,
Wi' whip an' spur unscanted,
An' Brougham up to Lunnun trigs
To see if he be wanted.
So, Zekil, go to th' kitchen door,
To-day theawst hav' a treatin'.
An' presently wur Zekil poor,
Beside the window waitin';
When forth coom Miss, all don'd i' silk,
Enoof to captivate us—
Hoo gan poor Zeke some buttermilk,
An' a plate o' cowd potatoes!