My commands there are none to forestall,
From the bandy-legged boots to the host
I am lording it over them all!
Oh! Leicestershire! where is the wag
Who called thee “a region of bliss?”
Better dine with “The Bore” at “The Rag,”
Than freeze in a pot-house like this!
I am outside society’s bounds,
Alone I must finish my weeds,
Never hear the sweet music of hounds,