As the worn show-horse whom Ducrow so long
Has taught to prance before the applauding throng,
Now all unfit to play his wonted part,
Turns the dull mill or tracts the ignoble cart;
If, midst his daily toils, perchance he hears
Great Wombell’s trumpets, and the attendant cheers,
Strives from his rear the cumbrous load to fling,
And longs to circle in his ancient ring—
So I, when loud your festive laughter swells,
Would gladly don once more my cap and bells,