Are filled with laudatory airs,
Such as the salaried bard should troll
When he the Laureate laurels wears.
And I am he who opened Hades,
To harmless parsons and to ladies!

For I _can_ "moralise my song"
More palpably than Mr. POPE;
And I can touch the toiling throng:
There is small doubt of _that_, I hope.
I've piped for him who ploughs the furrows,
And stood for the Carmarthen Boroughs.

I mayn't be strong, inspired, complete,
But on the Liberal goose I'm sound.
And I can count my (rhythmic) feet
With any Pegasus around.
I witch all women, and some men,
GLADSTONE I've drawn, and written "_Gwen_."

If these be not sufficient claims,
The worth of Verse is vastly small.
I've called him various pretty names,
The honoured Master of us all;
"His place is with the Immortals." Yes!
But I could fill it _here_, I guess!

His "chaste white Muse" could not object,
For mine is white, and awfully chaste.
Now ALGERNON has no respect