It leaped from the land and over the downs,
And flew like wind through the Isle of Wight:
There Tennyson sat in his wide-awake hat,
Or smoked and strolled on his 'sponge-wet' grounds;
'I'll give them a song not over long—
I'll give them a song for two hundred pounds.'
How happy, how happy,
The Editors grew!
'Were it the merest
Trash, 'tis the dearest,