When Punch gives friend and foe their due, Can unwashed mirth grow riper? Yet when the curtain falls, how few Remain to pay the piper!
If pathos should thy bosom stir To tears, more sweet than laughter, Oh, bless its kind interpreter, And love him ever after!
Dear Parson of the roguish eye! Thy face has grown historic, Since saint and sinner flocked to buy The homilies of Yorick.
I fain would add one blossom to The chaplet Fame has wreathed thee. My friends, the crew that Yorick drew Accept, as friends bequeathed thee.
At Shandy Hall I like to stop And see my ancient crony, Or in the lane meet Dr. Slop Astride a slender pony.
Mine uncle, on his bowling-green, Still storms a breach in Flanders; And faithful Trim, starch, tall, and lean, With Bridget still philanders.
And here again they visit us By happy inspiration, The “fortunes of Pisistratus,” A tale of fascination.
But lay his magic volume by, And thank the Great Enchanter;— Our loins are girded, let us try A sentimental canter....
A Temple quaint of latest growth Expands, where Art and Science Astounded by our lack of both, Have founded an alliance.
One picture there all passers scan, It rivets friend and stranger: Come, gaze on yonder guileless man, And tremble for his danger.
Mine uncle's bluff — his waistcoat's buff,— The heart beneath is tender.— Bewitching widow! Hold! Enough! Thou fairest of thy gender.
The limner's art!— the poet's pen!— Posterity the story Shall tell how these three gifted men Have wrought for Yorick's glory.
O name not easily forgot! Our love, dear Shade, we show thee, Regretting thy misdeeds, but not Forgetting what we owe thee.
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