In mood as frisky, we’ll fill the whisky.
And make sweet end in mirth and melody.
Maclise’s pencil, that rare utensil,
It gives those brave boys immortality,
As still they’re sitting, the swift wit flitting,
Like lightning forked round Frazer’s snuggery—
Sage, singer, joker, from Crusty Croker,
Gay Theodore, that “divil” for a spree,
To th’ Reverend Barham (garter and star him!)
The prince of ballad-singers, Ingoldsby.