The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell :: :: University of Virginia Library

And now, why further swell my tome?
Suffice it, Albon canter'd home.
What recks it in my simple tale,
That Albon supp'd and swallow'd ale;
Or, tired with travel and alone,
Placed on his pate a cotton cone,
And one of tin on candle's head,

106

Then, peering, groped the way to bed?
But, reader, ere we part, adieu!
For I would part in peace with you.
Take my pot-luck, 'tis good hotch-potch,
A mess of Anglo-Gallic Scotch.
And if this sells, as sell it must,
I soon shall touch, again, your dust.
With wondrous speed, as I'm a sinner,
I'll knock you up another dinner;
For thoughts fall quick from fertile brain,
Like bright prismatic show'rs of rain—
And I can write with ready pen,
For gentle maids, and gentle men.
Though poor the measures from my reed,
Still poorer is your minstrel's meed:
I ask but half-a-crown a line—
The Song be your's, the Disk be mine.

Generally applied to a planet, but here to a half-crown piece.