(Supposed to be chanted over the grave of that
eminent publisher, by MISS L. E. LANDON)
The Puff that once thro’ Colburn’s halls
The soul of humbug shed,
Now lies as mute ’neath Colburn’s walls
As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the praise of many books,
Whose sale, alas! is o’er,
And men who once were gull’d thereby,
Will now be gull’d no more.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright