IN royal Anna’s golden days,
Hard was the task to gain the bays:
Hard was it then the hill to climb;
Some broke a neck, some lost a limb.
The vot’ries for poetic fame,
Got aff decrepit, blind, an’ lame:
Except that little fellow Pope,
Few ever then got near its top:
An’ Homer’s crutches he may thank,
Or down the brae he’d got a clank.