“Fr — n — u, great man!‘ tis thee I sing, And to thy shrine just incense bring The attribute of praise; To thee, who scorn'd all common rules,
Supreme of dunces, chief of fools, I dedicate my lays. “Sternhold is dead! What though he be? Another Sternhold now in thee
Beotia's sons explore; Like this, thy mind is clear and bright, Transparent as the darkest night, When angry tempests roar.
“Thy verse, but ah! my powers are vain, To tell the wonders of thy brain Where mists of dullness sit; Cimmerian darkness round thy head,
It's sable mantle long hath spread, To veil thy wooden wit. “Thy satire, mystic type of lead, Keen as a dart without a head,
And vigorous as age; ‘ Twould almost make a mill-stone cry To have thy muse its enemy, When cloathed in her rage.
“Thy bold, heroic numbers swell, As lofty as the deepest well Where noxious vapours rise; Thy song as sweet as Bellman's note,
When spun through Mitchell's brazen throat, Or midnight Watchmen's cries. “Thy eyes, the index of the soul, With mad, poetic fury roll,
In eager search of fame; Thy face, ye gods! ah! what a face! Thy air, thy port, thy quaint grimmace, Add honor to thy name.
“When, late, sleep's Goddess, clos'd my eyes, And dreams in sweet gradation rise, Soul-soothing guests of night, Methought the cloud-invelop'd Queen
Display'd her dull, somnific mien, In majesty and might. “Thick, opiate dews she did dispense, Whilst poppies, foes to wit and sense,
Hung pendant from her head; Safe in her hand, by love, impell'd. Great Fr — n — u's sacred form she held, Impress'd on genuine lead.
“With blinking, am'rous, rush-light eyes She view'd her blest Saturnine prize, As conscious of his worth; Then smooth'd the wrinkles of her frown,
And shook her poppy-teeming crown, With unaffected mirth. “‘ Go on ( she cry'd ), with fervent zeal, Thou glory of that common-weal,
Where dullness bears the sway! E'en L — e to thee shall yield the chair, His rhimes shall vanish into air, Before thy duller lay.
“‘ Corcoran, long ago, hath fled, And roving Jem, ‘ tis said, is dead, Those foes to common sense; Now Fr — n — u thou, their son and heir.
More stupid than a stupid mare, Steps forth in my defence. “‘ Thee shall no wisdom e'er molest, No wit shall perforate thy breast,
Nor humour shew her face; Thy drowsy verse shall prove a balm, Specific as the hundredth psalm, When W — ch — r sings base.
“‘ Each flow'r of Billingsgate I'll cull, To render thee, my son, more dull, If duller thou canst be, Thy works with Sternhold's shall be bound,
While Hopkins, from the dark profound, Shall yield the palm to thee.’ “She ceas'd, and all that own'd her cause, In one loud transport of applause,
Burst like a sudden gale; All hail, great man! was Bailey's cry, Hail! Joe, and Skunk, and Tom, reply, Dullness and Fr — n — u, hail!”
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