All hated Whiggery; but what is Whiggery?
The avenging leaf those fields raised up against it.
But we old men are massed against the world.
But never saw the trefoil stained with blood,
The Second. Oliver Goldsmith sang what he had seen,
Soft as the rustle of a reed from Cloyne
The Seventh. They walked the roads
The Sixth. Whether they knew or not,
TheSecond. My great-grandfather shared
Drank tar-water with the Bishop of Cloyne.
Roads full of beggars, cattle in the fields,
Or out of drunkards eye.
The First. American colonies, Ireland, France and India
The Fourth. But mine saw Stella once.
The Fifth. Whence came our thought?
A levelling, rancorous, rational sort of mind
The Third. A voice
The Sixth. From four great minds that hated Whiggery.
Harried, and Burkes great melody against it.
Mimicking what they heard, as children mimic;
The Third. My great-grandfathers father talked of music,
The Seventh. Alls Whiggery now,
That never looked out of the eye of a saint
The First. My great-grandfather spoke to Edmund Burke
The Fifth. Burke was a Whig.
Goldsmith and Burke, Swift and the Bishop of Cloyne
In Grattans house.
They understood that wisdom comes of beggary.
The Fourth. The tomb of Swift wears it away.
The Sixtb. What schooling had these four?
The Seven Sages
That gathers volume; now a thunder-clap.
A pot-house bench with Oliver Goldsmith once.
