Nay, set as a cypher the Long Witton stot;[68]
And credit confer’d on the Kintire Scot,
Who rear’d upon pastures of poor pithless spart,
These magnified monsters in mayor Millar’s mart.
Their dimensions alive, and their density dead,
He measur’d and weigh’d with the eyes of his head,
From the tip of the tongue to the tip of the tail,
In ells and in inches, exact as a scale,
The girt of the sirloin, the centre and crop,
The breadth of the brisket, the bottom and top;