Then, in the midst of some dull nodding speech,
While Gurney all their mirth to hush would try;
His listless mind in verse and puns he’d stretch,
And pour them on the crew which babbled by,
Unchecked his aim by gravity, or scorn,
Mustering his scattered forces he would sit,
Now drooping woeful at a jest still-born,
Now worn with care in trying for a hit.
One circuit missed him (’twas the one in Lent)
From all the places where he used to be;