Is there a whim-inspirèd fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate 1 to seek, owre proud to snool; 2
Let him draw near,
And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.
Is there a bard of rustic song,
Who, noteless, steals the crowd among,
That weekly this area throng;
O,...
For the Tombstone Erected over the Marquis of Anglesea’s Leg, Lost at Waterloo
HERE rests, and let no saucy knave
Presume to sneer and laugh,
To learn that moldering in the grave
Is laid a British Calf.
For he who writes these lines is sure,
That those who read the whole
Will find such laugh was premature,
For here, too...
