And bustle in heroics one and all.
E’en Bertie burns of gods and chiefs to sing—
Bertie who lately twittered to the string
His namby pamby madrigals of love,
In the dark dingles of a glittering grove,
Where airy lays, wove by the hand of morn,
Were hung to dry upon a cobweb thorn!
Happy the soil where bards like mushrooms rise,
And ask no culture but what Byshe supplies!
Happier the bards who, write whate’er they will,