An unsigned burlesque pastoral ballad in seven double quatrain stanzas. The singer, a Whig politician, finds himself jilted by Ambition: "Ambition now seems but a sin, | My fellows do nothing but flout; | Alas! I made sure to be in— | But, alas! I'm deplorably out!" He would have been aligned with Henry Brougham and Lord Lansdown, who were defeated by Wellington's Tories. The New Times was a Tory newspaper edited at this period by Eugenius Roche.
Ye Tories give ear to my lay,
At least take some heed to my "speech,"
You have nothing to do but be gay,
Have nothing to do, but to preach!
Ye do not my folly pursue,
But mark how my passion begun,
Perhaps you'd in passion be too;
Mark'd out for all manner of fun!
Perhaps I was void of all thought—
Perhaps it was plain to foresee—
That the Chancellor's seat would be caught,
By a Judge of more judgment than me!
Ambition is fond to inspire,
Yet oft proves a jilt as you see;
Her admirers she sinks in the mire,
So foul and so fickle she be!
Like Scarlet I blush'd when I found
The Whigs were with honours bespread;
Too simply, methought I was bound
To furnish those Whigs with a head!
But ambition no more shall beguile,
My vanities draw to a close;
What I took for an amorous smile,
Was but meant for the twitch of my nose!
Ambition now seems but a sin,
My fellows do nothing but flout;
Alas! I made sure to be in—
But, alas! I'm deplorably out!
In vain do I boast my renown,
Notoriety's far from enough;
In vain do I boast a silk gown,
They tell me 'tis nothing but stuff!
The sweets that new factions disclose,
The murmuring rabble supreme,
The peace that from turbulence flows,
Henceforth shall be Harry's own theme;
High places are shown to the sight,
But we're not to find them our own;
Fate never yet gave such delight,
As I on my Woolsack had known!
Dissent shall be sown in our churches,
Insulting the Norwich high reason;
But railing at Lansdown's researches,
At least shall be made petty treason!
The law shall not harass the suitor,
The law shall scarce punish the thief;
If LAWLESS I go for the future,
The lawless shall have have some relief!
To the Woods and the Waithman's I'll prate,
To their stupid excesses I fly;
I would herd me with pigs of estate,
And cry up their maje-sty!
To faction alone I'll be soothing,
For mark how my passion begun,
By Satan! it sha'nt be for nothing,
I'm mark'd for all manner of fun!