I. Come round and hear, my public dear, Come hear, and judge it gently,— The prose so terse, and flowing verse, Of us, the wits of Bentley.
II. We offer not intricate plot To muse upon intently; No tragic word, no bloody sword, Shall stain the page of Bentley.
III. The tender song which all day long Resounds so sentimént'ly, Through wood and grove all full of love, Will find no place in Bentley.
IV. Nor yet the speech which fain would teach All nations eloquéntly;— 'Tis quite too grand for us the bland And modest men of Bentley.
V. For science deep no line we keep, We speak it reveréntly;— From sign to sign the sun may shine, Untelescoped by Bentley.
VI. Tory and Whig, in accents big, May wrangle violéntly: Their party rage shan't stain the page— The neutral page of Bentley.
VII. The scribe whose pen is mangling men And women pestiléntly, May take elsewhere his wicked ware,— He finds no mart in Bentley.
VIII. It pains us not to mark the spot Where Dan may find his rént lie; The Glasgow chiel may shout for Peel, We know them not in Bentley.
IX. Those who admire a merry lyre,— Those who would hear attent'ly A tale of wit, or flashing hit,— Are ask'd to come to Bentley.
X. Our hunt will be for grace and glee, Where thickest may the scent lie; At slashing pace begins the chase— Now for the burst of Bentley.