’Mid dust-begrimed wines that fetch never a bid;
Even Fearne on Remainders we vainly deplore
Forgotten for aye, like the wonderful Tidd!
Oblivion has fallen on the frequent Ca. sa.,
And Cursitor Street is untrod as of yore;
We turn not the leaves of Les Termes de la Ley,
Or these ancient Reports, ah, many a score,
Of a dulness as deadly as dread hellibore,
Of their Latin and law we are joyfully rid.
Let them stand, as we peacefully slumber and snore,