The bard inscribed to lords his lay,--
Himself, the while, my Lord Mountgarret.
No more he begs with air dependent.
His "little bark may sail attendant"
Under some lordly skipper's steerage;
But launched triumphant in the Row,
Or taken by Murray's self in tow.
Cuts both _Star Chamber_ and the peerage.
Patrons, indeed! when scarce a sail
Is whiskt from England by the gale.
But bears on board some authors, shipt
For foreign shores, all well equipt
With proper book-making machinery,
To sketch the morals, manners, scenery,
Of all such lands as they shall see,
Or _not_ see, as the case may be:--
It being enjoined on all who go
To study first Miss Martineau,
And learn from her the method true,[too.
To _do_ one's books--and readers,
For so this nymph of _nous_ and nerve
Teaches mankind "How to Observe;"
And, lest mankind at all should swerve,
Teaches them also "_What_ to Observe."
No, no, my friend--it can't be blinkt--
The Patron is a race extinct;
As dead as any Megatherion
That ever Buckland built a theory on.
Instead of bartering in this age
Our praise for pence and patronage,
We authors now more prosperous elves,
Have learned to patronize ourselves;
And since all-potent Puffing's made
The life of song, the soul of trade.
More frugal of our praises grown,
We puff no merits but our own.
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