Oh, for yester-year’s snows! Where is Newdegate gone?
The House without him! ’Tis a thought that bewilders.
Shaw Lefevre, where’s he? Like the rose season gone
With rare Farrer Herschell and radiant Childers.
The rose will return, and these twain in its train
May, like penitent peris, in Paradise sport on;
But ever henceforth may we hunger in vain
For the shout and the snuff-box of Bill-blocker Warton.
Where’s Firth? How the flushed City Fathers rejoice
At the fall of the foe who assailed them so rashly!