Bung. Either I mistake your shape and making quite,

Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite

Called Grandolph Goodfellow. Are you not he

That did your best to spill Lord S-l-sb-ry?

Gave the Old Tory party quite a turn,

And office with snug perquisites did spurn?

And now you'd make Strong Drink to bear no barm

(Or proper profit.) You would do us harm.

Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sly Puck,

Are right; you always bring your friends bad luck.

Are you not he?

Puck. By Jove, thou speak'st aright;

I am that merry wanderer full of spite.

I jest unto the Plebs and make it smile.

Old, fat, and bean-fed Tories I beguile,

And lead them to a Democratic goal.

Now I am "going for" the flowing bowl.

E'en W-lfr-d owns I am "upon the job."

I mean to save the workman many a "bob."

But, lessening his chance of toping ale,

The Witler tells his pals the saddest tale.

Bacchus for his true friend mistaketh me,

Then step I from his side, down topples he,

And "Traitor!" cries, and swears I did but chaff,

And the Teetotallers hold their sides and laugh,

And chortle in their joy, and shout, and swear

That Grandolph Goodfellow's a spirit rare.

But room, old boy, the Second Reading's on.

Bung. He is a trickster:—Would that he were gone!