  “Whiffin, proclaim silence!”—Pickwick Whiffin, with all thy faults, I love thee still, Thee and thine ancient office and the sweet Metallic peal that quelled the popular heat When party strife ran high in Eatanswill; Who now with quavering eloquence would’st fill, And tidings of a pilfered purse, the street Maddened with motors and the armoured fleet Of base mechanical engines out to kill. Go, thou sole arbiter of Buff and Blue, Time hath prevailed against thee, yield the floor, Toll, on bare sufferance, from door to door, The hooters hold the highway;—as for you, You voice the missing ha’pence of the poor, And they the incomes of the well-to-do. |
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