by George Byron
BOB SOUTHEY! You 're a poet- Poet-laureate,
And representative of all the race,
Although 't is true that you turn'd out a Tory at
Last,- yours has lately been a common case;
And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye at?
With all the Lakers, in and out of place?
A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye
Like 'four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye;'
'Which pye being open'd they began to sing'
(This old song and new simile holds good),
'A dainty dish to set before the King,'
Or Regent, who admires such kind of food;-
And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing,
But like a hawk encumber'd with his hood,-
Explaining metaphysics to the nation-
I wish he would explain his Explanation.
You, Bob! are rather insolent, you know,
At being disappointed in your wish
To supersede all w . . .