True histories of last year's ghost,
Lines to a ringlet, or a turban;
And trifles for the Morning Post,
And nothings for Sylvanus Urban.

He did not think all mischief fair,
Although he had a knack of joking;
He did not make himself a bear,
Although he had a taste for smoking:
And when religious sects ran mad,
He held, in spite of all his learning,
That if a man's belief is bad,
It will not be improved by burning.

And he was kind, and loved to sit
In the low hut or garnish'd cottage,
And praise the farmer's homely wit,
And share the widow's homelier pottage:
At his approach complaint grew mild;
And when his hand unbarr'd the shutter,
The clammy lips of fever smiled
The welcome, which they could not utter.

He always had a tale for me
Of Julius Caesar, or of Venus;
From him I learn'd the rule of three,
Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and Quae genus:
I used to singe his powder'd wig,
To steal the staff he put such trust in;
And make the puppy dance a jig,