Or coarse Silenus;
Like Spenser's satyrs, they attack us,
With rompings rouse, with noises rack us,
Brutes in the train of beery Bacchus,
And vulgar Venus.
'Arry's mouth-organ is, indeed,
Far shriekier than your shrilling reed,
Pan-fathered piper;
While his tin-whistle!—a wood-god,
Whose tympanum that sound should prod,