I’m glad young men should go the pace,
I half forgive Old Rapid;
These louts disgrace their name and race,—
So vicious and so vapid!
Worse times may come. Bon ton, indeed,
Will then be quite forgotten,
And all we much revere will speed
From ripe to worse than rotten:
Let grass then sprout between yon stones,
And owls then roost at Boodle’s,