A bitter song from Ebenezer Elliott's Corn Law poems:


SONG.


WHEN working blackguards come to blows,
And give or take a bloody nose,
Shall juries try such dogs as those,
       Now Nap lies at Saint Helena?

No, let the Great Unpaid decide,
Without appeal, on tame bull's hide,
Ash-planted well, or fistified,
       Since Nap died at Saint Helena.

When Sabbath stills the dizzy mill,
Shall Cutler Tom, or Grinder Bill,
On footpaths wander where they will,
       Now Nap lies at Saint Helena?

No, let them curse, but feel our power;
Dogs! let them spend their idle hour
Where burns the highway's dusty shower;
       For Nap died at Saint Helena.

Huzza! the rascal Whiglings work
For better men than Hare and Burke,
And envy Algerine and Turk,
       Since Nap died at Saint Helena.

Then close each path that sweetly climbs
Suburban hills, where village chimes
Remind the rogues of other times,
       Ere Nap died at Saint Helena.

We tax their bread, restrict their trade;
To toil for us, their hands were made;
Their doom is seal'd, their prayer is pray'd;
       Nap perish'd at St. Helena.

Dogs! would they toil and fatten too?
They grumble still, as dogs will do:
We conquer'd them at Waterloo;
       And Nap lies at Saint Helena.

But shall the villains meet and prate
In crowds about affairs of state?
Ride, yeoman, ride! Act, magistrate!
       Nap perish'd at Saint Helena.