Who'll be the clerk?
Sibthorp, for a lark,
If you'll all keep it dark,
He'll be the clerk.
Who'll carry him to his grave?
The Chartists, with pleasure,
Will wait on his leisure,
They'll carry him to his grave.
Who'll carry the link?
Said Wakley, in a minute,
I _must_ be in it,
I'll carry the link.
Who'll be chief mourners?
We, shouted dozens
Of out-of-place cousins,
We'll be chief mourners.
Who'll bear the pall?
As they loudly bewail,
Both O'Connell and tail,
They'll bear the pall.
Who'll go before?
I, said old Cupid,
I'll still head the stupid,
I'll go before.
Who'll sing a psalm?
I, Colonel Perceval,
(Oh, Peel, be merciful!)
I'll sing a psalm.
Who'll throw in the dirt?
I, said the _Times_,
In lampoons and rhymes,
I'll throw in the dirt.
Who'll toll the bell?
I, said John Bull,
With pleasure I'll pull,--
I'll toll the bell.
All the Whigs in the world
Fell a sighing and sobbing,
When wicked Bob Peel
Put an end to their jobbing.
* * * * *
TRANSACTIONS AND YEARLY REPORT OF THE HOOKHAM-CUM-SNIVEY LITERARY,
SCIENTIFIC, AND MECHANICS' INSTITUTION.
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