Check Mate.

Alas, the country! how shall tongue or pen
Bewail her now uncountry gentlemen?
The last to bid the cry of warfare cease,
The first to make a malady of peace.
For what were all these country patriots born?
To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn?
But corn, like every mortal thing, must fall,
Kings, conquerors, and markets, most of all.
And must you fall with every ear of grain?
Why would you trouble —————- reign?
He was your great Triptolemus; his vices
Destroyed your realms, and still maintained your prices;
He amplified to every ——— content
The grand agrarian alchemy — high rent.

—————————————————————————-

Their ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands
Their fields manured by gore of other lands;
Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent
Their brethren out to battle – why? for rent!
Year after year they voted cent. per cent.
Blood, sweat, and tear-rung millions – why? for rent!
They roared, they dined, they drank, they swore they meant
To die for England! – why then live? for rent!
The peace has made one general malcontent
Of these high-market patriots; war was rent!
Their love of country, millions all misspent,
How reconcile? by reconciling rent!
And will they not repay the treasures lent?
No – down with everything, and up with rent!
Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent,
Being, end, aim, religion – rent, rent, rent!