Mine uncle, on his bowling-green,
Still storms a breach in Flanders;
And faithful Trim, starch, tall, and lean,
With Bridget still philanders.
And here again they visit us
By happy inspiration,
The "fortunes of Pisistratus,"
A tale of fascination.
But lay his magic volume by,
And thank the Great Enchanter;—
Our loins are girded, let us try
A sentimental canter....
A Temple quaint of latest growth
Expands, where Art and Science
Astounded by our lack of both,
Have founded an alliance.
One picture there all passers scan,
It rivets friend and stranger:
Come, gaze on yonder guileless man,
And tremble for his danger.
Mine uncle's bluff—his waistcoat's buff,—
The heart beneath is tender.—
Bewitching widow! Hold! Enough!
Thou fairest of thy gender.
The limner's art!—the poet's pen!—
Posterity the story
Shall tell how these three gifted men
Have wrought for Yorick's glory.
O name not easily forgot!
Our love, dear Shade, we show thee,
Regretting thy misdeeds, but not
Forgetting what we owe thee.