Oh Scott, were I gifted like you,
Who can name all the echoes there are
From Benvoirlich to bold Benvenue,
From Benledi to wild Uamvar;
I might track thro' each hard Irish name
The rebounds of this asinine strain,
Till from Neddy to Neddy, it came
To the _chief_ Neddy, Kenyon, again;
Might tell how it roared in Rathdowne,
How from Dawson it died off genteelly--
How hollow it hung from the crown
Of the fat-pated Marquis of Ely;
How on hearing my Lord of Glandine,
Thistle-eaters the stoutest gave way,
Outdone in their own special line
By the forty-ass power of his bray!
But, no--for so humble a bard
'Tis a subject too trying to touch on;
Such noblemen's names are too hard,
And their noddles too soft to dwell much on.
Oh Echo, sweet nymph of the hill,
Of the dell and the deep-sounding shelves;
If in spite of Narcissus you still
Take to fools who are charmed with themselves,
Who knows but, some morning retiring,
To walk by the Trent's wooded side,
You may meet with Newcastle, admiring
His own lengthened ears in the tide!
Or, on into Cambria straying,
Find Kenyon, that double tongued elf,
In his love of _ass_-cendency, braying
A Brunswick duet with himself!
[1] "Let us from Clubs."
[2] Commonly called "Paddy Blake's Echoes".
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