To those who’d laugh at his old jokes he’d never close his door,
And none of his old favourites e’er voted him a bore,
But kindly laughed at tales they’d heard a thousand times before,
From this fine old, &c.
And every year to town he went to state his wretched case,
And to Lord Fitzroy’s lévee never failed to show his face;
And though he gets some promises, and time wears on apace,
Still, still his name’s reposing in it’s old accustomed place,
This fine old, &c.