Classic Poem

'Tis forty to one
When Carteret is gone,
These praises we blot out;
The truth will be got out;
And then we'll be smart on
His Lordship as Wharton.
Or Shrewsbury's Duke
With many rebuke.
Or Bolton the wise
With his Spanish flies.
Or Grafton the deep,
Either drunk or asleep.
These titles and arms
Will then lose their charms,
If somebody's grace
Should come in his place,
And thus it goes round:
We praise and confound.
They can do no good,
Nor would if they could,
To injure the nation
Is recommendation,
And why should they save her,
By losing their favour?
Poor kingdom, thou wouldst be that governor's debtor,
Who kindly would leave thee no worse nor no better.