First Follett’s hand, his skill to try,
    Upon the seals bewilder’d laid;
  But back recoil’d—­he scarce knew why—­
    Of Lyndhurst’s angry scowl afraid.

  Next Stanley rush’d with frenzied air;
    His eager haste brook’d no delay: 
  He rudely seized the Foreign chair,
    And bade poor Cupid trudge away.

  With woeful visage Melbourne sate—­
    A pint of double X his grief beguiled;
  And inly pondering o’er his fate,
    He bade th’ attendant pot-boy “draw it mild.”

  But thou, Sir Jamie Graham—­prig;
    What was thy delighted musing? 
  Now accepting, now refusing,
  Till on the Admiralty pitch’d,
    Still would that thought his speech prolong;
  To gain the place for which he long had itch’d,
    He call’d on Bobby still through all the song;
  But ever as his sweetest theme he chose,
  A sovereign’s golden chink was heard at every close,
  And Pollock grimly smiled, and shook his powder’d wig.

  And longer had he droned—­but, with a frown
          Brougham impatient rose;
  He threw the bench of snoring bishops down,
          And, with a withering look,
          The Whig-denouncing trumpet took,
  And made a speech so fierce and true,
  Thrashing, with might and main, both friend and foe;
          And ever and anon he beat,
          With doubled fist his cushion’d seat;
  And though sometimes, each breathless pause between,
          Astonished Melbourne at his side,
          His moderating voice applied,
  Yet still he kept his stern, unalter’d mien,
  While battering the Whigs and Tories black and blue.

  Thy ravings, Goulburn, to no theme were fix’d. 
    Not ev’n thy virtue is without its spots;
  With piety thy politics were mix’d,
    And now they courted Peel, now call’d on Doctor Watts.

  With drooping jaw, like one half-screw’d,
  Lord Johnny sate in doleful mood,
  And for his Secretarial seat,
  Sent forth his howlings sad, but sweet
  Lost Normanby pour’d forth his sad adieu;
          While Palmerston, with graceful air,
          Wildly toss’d his scented hair;
  And pensive Morpeth join’d the sniv’lling crew. 
    Yet still they lingered round with fond delay,
          Humming, hawing, stopping, musing,
          Tory rascals all abusing,
    Till forced to move away.

  But, oh! how alter’d was the whining tone
    When, loud-tongued Lyndhurst, that unblushing wight,
  His gown across his shoulders flung,
    His wig with virgin-powder white,
  Made an ear-splitting speech that down to Windsor rung,
  The Tories’ call, that Billy Holmes well knew,
  The turn-coat Downshire and his Orange crew;
  Wicklow and Howard both were seen
  Brushing away the wee bit green;
  Mad Londonderry laugh’d to hear,
  And Inglis scream’d and shook his ass’s ear