The sylph-like tones of sweet, poetic, Ned,
The fierce denouncings of the anti-mob,
No more shall call them from their narrow bed.
For them no more the fierce fusee shall burn,
Or plugs be purchased and put in with care;
In memory only, I to them return;
Their smoke, too strong, would all my nerves impair.
Oft have they lain with me in some green field;
Their solace oft some stiff-neck’d care has broke.
How strangely sorrow to the pipe doth yield,