University of Virginia Library

But there's something for the blues,
Grieving for their two pound twos.
Not a squaw but has a story,
Not a flea but skips before ye.
You've a list of every needle,
That could soul or body wheedle.
Tare and tret of every quid,
That for dog or duckling bid:
How much brandy in her water,
Warm'd old Sealskin's oily daughter.
Every bill on Monmouth-street,
Paid for leagues of genuine sleet:
Every Admiralty name,
Yet to fill the trump of fame:
All the mighty officemen,
Perch'd on stock, and rock, and fen;
Puzzling all the blubber hordes,
With Lords—alas! no longer Lords.
There (every dog will have his day,)
Bold C*b*n towers through fog and spray;
H*pe boasts a marsh, and gallant M*re
Is monarch of a mile of shore:
Ill-omen'd M*lv*lle has his isle,
Grim as his own paternal pile;
Where the great scion of D*nd*s
May graze his goose, and ride his ass:
Nay, not a messenger or clerk,
But in some mire has made his mark,
And stamp'd by friendship's broadest arrow,
Looms through eternal mists Cape B*rr*w.