However, Sir—if you're for trying again,
And at somewhat that's vendible—we are your men.
Since the Chevalier Carr[1] took to marrying lately,
The Trade is in want of a Traveller greatly—
No job, Sir, more easy—your Country once planned,
A month aboard ship and a fortnight on land
Puts your Quarto of Travels, Sir, clean out of hand.
An East-India pamphlet's a thing that would tell—
And a lick at the Papists is sure to sell well.
Or—supposing you've nothing original in you—
Write Parodies, Sir, and such fame it will win you,
You'll get to the Blue-stocking Routs of Albinia![2]
(Mind—not to her dinners—a second-hand Muse
Mustn't think of aspiring to mess with the Blues.)
Or—in case nothing else in this world you can do—
The deuce is in't, Sir, if you can not review!
Should you feel any touch of poetical glow,
We've a Scheme to suggest—Mr. Scott, you must know,
(Who, we're sorry to say it, now works for the Row.[3])
Having quitted the Borders to seek new renown,
Is coming by long Quarto stages to Town;
And beginning with "Rokeby" (the job's sure to pay)
Means to do all the Gentlemen's Seats on the way.
Now, the Scheme is (tho' none of our hackneys can beat him)
To start a fresh Poet thro' Highgate to meet him;
Who by means of quick proofs—no revises—long coaches—
May do a few Villas before Scott approaches.
Indeed if our Pegasus be not curst shabby,
He'll reach, without foundering, at least Woburn Abbey.
Such, Sir, is our plan—if you're up to the freak,
'Tis a match! and we'll put you in training next week.
At present, no more—in reply to this Letter,
A line will oblige very much
Yours, et cetera.
Temple of the Muses.
[1] Sir John Carr, the author of "Tours in Ireland, Holland. Sweden," etc.
[2] This alludes, I believe, to a curious correspondence, which is said to have passed lately between Albina, Countess of Buckinghamshire, and a certain ingenious Parodist.
[3] Paternoster Row.