For who like thee could ever stride!
Some dozen paces to the mile!
The motley, medley coach provide—
Or like Joe Frankenstein compile
The vegetable man complete!—
A proper Covent Garden feat!
Oh, who like thee could ever drink,
Or eat,—swill—swallow—bolt—and choke!
Nod, weep, and hiccup—sneeze and wink?—
Thy very yawn was quite a joke!
Though Joseph, Junior, acts not ill,
“There’s no Fool like the old Fool” still!
Joseph, farewell! dear funny Joe!
We met with mirth,—we part in pain!
For many a long, long year must go
Ere Fun can see thy like again—
For Nature does not keep great stores
Of perfect Clowns—that are not Boors!
TO SYLVANUS URBAN, ESQ.,
EDITOR OF THE “GENTLEMAN’S MAGAZINE.”
“Dost thou not suspect my years?”—Much Ado about Nothing.
H! Mr. Urban! never must thou lurch
A sober age made serious drunk by thee;
Hop in thy pleasant way from church to church,
And nurse thy little bald Biography.
Oh, my Sylvanus! what a heart is thine!
And what a page attends thee! Long may I
Hang in demure confusion o’er each line
That asks thy little questions with a sigh!
Old tottering years have nodded to their falls,
Like pensioners that creep about and die;—
But thou, Old Parr of periodicals,
Livest in monthly immortality!