There Wordsworth, for his muse's sallies,
Claims all the ponds, the lanes, and alleys--
There Coleridge swears none else shall tune
A bag-pipe to the list'ning moon;
On come in clouds the scribbling columns,
Each prowling for his next three volumes.
I scorn the rascal tribe, and spurn all
The yearly, monthly, and diurnal.

I write the finest things that ever
Made duchess fond, or marquiss clever--
(Although I'd rather half turn Turk,
The thing's such monstrous up-hill work).
My _ton's_ the very cream of fashion,
My passion the sublimest passion,
My rage _satanic_, love the same,
Of all blue flames, the bluest flame--
My piety perpetual matins,
A quaker propp'd on double pattens;
My lovely girls the most precocious,
My beaus delightfully atrocious!
Yet scarcely have I play'd my card,
When up comes politician Ward,
Before my face he trumps my trump,
Sweeps off my honours in the lump,
And never asking my permission,
Talks sermons to the third edition.

Or Boulogne, Highway Byeway, Grattan,
(The Pyrenees begin to flatten,