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A COMMENTARY ON THE ELECTIONS.
BY THE BEADLE OF SOMERSET HOUSE.
Well, lawks-a-day! things seem going on uncommon queer,
For they say that the Tories are bowling out the Whigs almost everywhere;
And the blazing red of my beadle's coat is turning to pink through fear,
Lest I should find myself and staff out of Office some time about the
end of the year.
I've done nothing so long but stand under the magnificent portico
Of Somerset House, that I don't know what I should do if I was for to go!
What the electors are at, I can't make out, upon my soul,
For it's a law of natur' that the _whig_ should be atop of
the _poll_.
I've had a snug berth of it here for some time, and don't want to cut
the connexion;
But they _do_ say the Whigs must go out, because they've NO OTHER
ELECTION;
What they mean by that, I _don't_ know, for ain't they been
electioneering--
That is, they've been canvassing, and spouting, and pledging, and
ginning, and beering.
Hasn't Crawford and Pattison, Lyall, Masterman, Wood, and Lord John
Russell,
For ever so long been keeping the Great Metropolis in one alarming
_bussel_?
Ain't the two _first_ retired into private life--(that's the genteel
for being rejected)?
And what's more, the _last_ four, strange to say, have all been elected.
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