 | May Fair |  |
Delightful work, to see the stroke
That shaves a province of its oak;
That, where the mighty mansion stood
A sort of heirloom of the flood,
That scorn'd the Dane's and Norman's spoil,
A thing imbedded in the soil;
Let but thy sceptre give a twist,
The walls are melted into mist;
The wooded hill, the teeming plain,
Are empty as their master's brain;
While go the lords of hills and valleys
To snuff the fishy gales of Calais;
Or reinforce thy sands, Boulogne,
With ragged leaders of the ton.
That shaves a province of its oak;
That, where the mighty mansion stood
A sort of heirloom of the flood,
That scorn'd the Dane's and Norman's spoil,
A thing imbedded in the soil;
Let but thy sceptre give a twist,
The walls are melted into mist;
186
Are empty as their master's brain;
While go the lords of hills and valleys
To snuff the fishy gales of Calais;
Or reinforce thy sands, Boulogne,
With ragged leaders of the ton.
| May Fair | |