Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-capp’d head
In humble Tyburn-top we see;
Esplash’d with dirt and sun-burn’d face;
Far on before the ladies mend their pace,
The Macaroni sneers, and will not see.
Dear lost Companions of the coxcomb’s art,
Dear as a turkey to these famish’d eyes,
Dear as the ruddy port which warms my heart,
Ye sunk amidst the fainting misses’ cries—
No more I weep—They do not sleep: