Sketches in verse :: :: University of Virginia Library

Tho' oft divine astronomy may call
Thy glasses to descry the radiant ball,
Thy active genius by no rules confin'd
Still leaves the planets to the plodding mind;
Eager alone the race of Wit to run,
And panting for the glorious goal—a Pun!

Let souls mechanic wind thro' study's maze,
And for dark science barter dearer ease:

A brighter course thy fervent spirit runs—
Sense, wisdom, learning, what are ye—to Puns?

What tho' the little wits, to fame unknown,
Raise the loud laugh, or pour the deepening groan:
What tho' around the sapient sneer be spread,
And critic darts assail thy reverend head;
Yet have I seen thee taste the thrilling bliss
Of self-applause, amid the general hiss,
And each mean wretch with scornful eye regard,
Assur'd, that merit is its own reward!

So, when appears the solemn bird of night,
At noontide labouring thro' a blaze of light;
Sudden, around the warblers of the day,
Insulting, on their airy pinions play;
Now here, now there, in wanton circles fly:
And a shrill clamour echoes thro' the sky.

But he, unruffled, plies his wings along,
Nor heeds the malice of the chattering throng;
O'erlooks, or eyes askance each giddy fowl,
Plum'd in the conscious merit of an owl!

These lines were afterwards transferred to a Country Mercer, equally as fond of a Pun as our Cambridge-Professor.

Hail, happy Tom, to whom indulgent Heaven
To rule o'er Puns and Tape, alike, hath given!
What tho' condemn'd to guide the flippant yard,
Thy Brussels lace unwinding from its card,
Thy genius sports, by measure unconfin'd,
And greatly scorns the poor mechanic mind!
Still, as thy yard proceeds, I see thee spurn
The dust beneath, on tiptoe at each turn;
While girls confess in many a laughing fit,
What's lack'd in measure, is made up—in wit!