He was true to his country, his friends, and his king: Yet one fault he had! a most scandalous thing, Perhaps you may ask, was he wanting in spirit? Oh no, that was never an Irish demerit. Perhaps a too bigotted aristocrat? I do not intend to impeach him of that. Perhaps he would trust to the chance of the day, And so became careless and indolent? Nay, Then what was his failing? Come, come, let us know it―― He was――could he help it?――by nature _a poet_! Here C――nn――ing is laid, and, to tell you my mind, He has not left a brighter or better behind: His speeches were brilliant, resistless, and grand, His character cordial, attaching, and bland: Still born to improve us in every part, His wisdom our judgment, his genius our heart. The terror of coxcombs, the wonder of wits, He could hit all their blots, he could ward all their hits; When they blunder’d, and thunder’d, and smarted, and swore, He but quizz’d them the quicker, and cut them the more!―― [Illustration] THE HERMIT OF VAUXHALL.[15] (_A Ballad after Oliver Goldsmith._) Turn, gentle hermit of Vauxhall, And let me know the way In which, within that cavern small, You pass your time away. There’s nothing but a little lamp, A pitcher and a cat! The place must be extremely damp―― Why don’t you wear a hat? No chaff, my son, the hermit cries, But walk your chalks along; Your path to the rotunda lies―― They’re going to sing a song. Father, I care not for the strain Of that young girl in blue, But, if you please, I will remain, And have a chat with you. My son, you surely wish to hear The music of the band; But if you stop――a drop of beer I think you ought to stand. Father, to grant what you require, I’ll not a moment fail; Here, waiter, bring the holy friar A pint of Burton ale. The waiter brought the welcome draught, I took a little sup; The liquor then the hermit quaff’d, He fairly mopped it up. Father, I cried, now if you please, Philosophy we’ll talk―― As the wind murmurs through the trees, Skirting the long dark walk. My son, forbear, exclaimed the sage, Nor on me make a call―― My life is but a pilgrimage From Lambeth to Vauxhall. At eve when shops their shutters shut, And tolls the curfew bell, I quit my room in the New Cut, To sit within this cell. A friendly ounce of Cheshire cheese My landlady provides, Save, what to give the public please, I’ve nothing, son, besides. Father, your salary, of course, You must receive, I said; Your sitting here is not by force: How do you get your bread?