Translating's simple, too, as I can tell,
Who've hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne,
And given the astonish'd bard a meaning all my own.
Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are grass'd:
Batter'd and broken are their early lyres.
Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past,
Warm'd his young hands at Smithfield's martyr fires,
And, worth a plum, nor bays nor butt desires.
But these are things would suit me to the letter,
For though this Stout is good, old Sherry's greatly better.