The Laureate bard! again my soul
Can scarce maintain its self-control!
Oh Tennyson! how can you bend
Your bardic spirit to such end?
Your wages twenty pounds a year,
With butt of wine and keg of beer!
Your credit on the royal books
Is scarce one third a third rate cook’s;
Yet you must sing and daub with praise
All those who bask in fortune’s rays;