Those monstrous, fashionable lies,--
In other words, those novels,
Composed of kings and queens and lords,
Of border wars, and gothic hordes
That used to live in hovels.

No, no, cries one, we've had enough
Of such confounded love-sick stuff,
To craze the fair creation;
Give us some recent foreign news
Of Russians, Turks, the Greeks, or Jews,
Or any other nation.

The man of dull scholastic lore
Would like to see a little more
In scraps of Greek or Latin;
The merchants rather have the price
Of southern indigo and rice,
Of India silks, or satin.

Another cries, I want more fun,
A witty anecdote or pun,
A rebus or a riddle;
Some long for missionary news,
And some, of worldly, carnal views,
Would rather hear a fiddle.

The critic, too, of classic skill,
Must dip in gall his gander quill,
And scrall against the paper: