May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill, And tailors' lays be longer than their bill! While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, And pay for poems--when they pay for coats.

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast; Is that portentous phrase, "I told you so.

A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour!

Opinions are made to be changed or how is truth to be got at?

Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.

Fills The air around with beauty.

Such hath it been--shall be--beneath the sun The many still must labour for the one.