But what is this that frights the air,

     And wakes the curate from his lair

        In Pusey's cool retreat,

     To leave the feast, to climb the stair,

        And scan the startled street?

     As when perambulate the young

     And call with unrelenting tongue

        On home, mamma, and sire;

     Or voters shout with strength of lung

        For Hall & Co's Entire;

     Or Sabbath-breakers scream and shout—

     The band of Booth, with drum devout,

     Eliza on her Sunday out,

        Or Farmer with his choir:—