Then died a Rambler: not the one who sails,
And trucks, for female favours, beads and nails;
Not one who posts from place to place - of men
And manners treating with a flying pen;
Not he who climbs, for prospects, Snowdon’s height,
And chides the clouds that intercept the sight;
No curious shell, rare plant, or brilliant spar,
Enticed our traveller from his house so far;
But all the reason by himself assign’d
For so much rambling, was a restless mind;