Those falling stones my craziness bespeak,
My smoke-dried aspect tells my lengthen’d years,
And many a furrow, worn into a creek,
The rain has made a channel for its tears.
Yon houses built on the adjacent ground
Have upon me my final doom bestow’d:
The Commons there a residence have found;
The Peerage a magnificent abode.
Hard is the fate of an infirm old pile,