By Thomas Moore
Yes, Winchelsea (I tremble while I pen it),
Winehelsea's Earl hath cut the British Senate--
Hath said to England's Peers, in accent gruff,
"That for ye all"[snapping his fingers] and exit in a huff!
Disastrous news!--like that of old which spread,
From shore to shore, "our mighty Pan is dead,"
O'er the cross benches (cross from being crost)
Sounds the loud wail, "Our Winchelsea is lost!"
Which of ye, Lords, that heard him can forget
The deep impression of that awful threat,
"I quit your house!!"--midst all that histories tell,
I know but one event that's parallel:--
It chanced at Drury Lane, one Easter night,
When the gay gods too blest to be polite
Gods at their ease, like those of learned Lucretius,
Laught, whistled, groaned, uproariously facetious--
A well-drest member of the middle gallery,
Whose "ears polite" disdained such low canaillerie,
Rose in his place--so grand, you'd almost swear
Lord Winchelsea himself stood towering there--
And like that Lord of dignity and nous,
Said, "Silence, fellows, or--I'll leave the house!!"
How brookt the gods this speech? Ah well-a-day,
That speech so fine should be so thrown away!
In vain did this mid-gallery grandee
Assert his own two-shilling dignity--
In vain he menaced to withdraw the ray
Of his own full-price countenance away--
Fun against Dignity is fearful odds,
And as the Lords laugh now, so giggled then the gods!