The Humourous Poetry of the English Language

521
Novels three-volumed I shall write no more--
Somehow or other now they will not sell;
And to invent new passions is a bore--
I find the Magazines pay quite as well.
Translating's simple, too, as I can tell,
Who've hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne,
And given the astonished bard a meaning all my own.
Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are grassed,
Battered and broken are their early lyres.
Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past,
Warmed his young hands at Smithfield's martyr fires,
And, worth a plum, nor bays, nor butt desires.
But these are things would suit me to the letter,
For though this Stout is good, old Sherry's greatly better.
A fice for your small poetic ravers,
Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these!
Shall they compete with him who wrote "Maltravers,"
Prologue to "Alice or the Mysteries?"
No! Even now, my glance prophetic sees
My own high brow girt with the bays about.
What ho, within there, ho! another pint of STOUT!
THE DIRGE OF THE DRINKER.
BYW------ E------ A------, ESQ.
WILLIAM AYTOUN.
Brothers, spare awhile your liquor, lay your final tumbler down;
He has dropp'd--that star of honor--on the field of his renown!
Raise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your knees,
If you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you please.
Sons of Pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurraing sink,
Be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half with drink!
Lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from off the floor;
See how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail in door!
Widely o'er the earth I've wander'd; where the drink most freely
flow'd,