That amorous fire which age denies—
Oh, no, I'd not be Dock forsooth,
I'd rather be the lusty youth.
Nor Dock, nor Cowen would I be,
But such as God hath fashioned me;
For I may now with maidens fair
Assume I'm Cowen debonnair,
Or, splurging on a borrowed stock,
I can imagine I'm the Dock.
The last tribute which I quote from Field to his school-master, literary guide, and friend is credited to the "Wit of the Silurian Age," and is accompanied by a drawing by the poet, who took a cut from some weekly of the day and touched it up with black, red, and green ink to represent the genial "Dock" seated in an arm-chair before a cheery fire, with the inevitable claret bottle on a stand within easy reach and a glass poised in his hand ready for the sip of a connoisseur, while the devotee of Kit North and Father Prout beamed graciously at you through his glasses: