The following imitation of “The Bard” is ascribed to the Hon. Thomas Erskine (afterwards Lord Erskine) who wrote it when a student at Trinity College, Cambridge. Having been disappointed of the attendance of his college-barber, at his lodgings over the shop of Mr. Jackson, an apothecary, he was compelled to forego his _commons_ in hall. Determined to have his revenge, and to give his hairdresser a good _dressing_ he composed the following “Fragment of a Pindaric Ode” wherein he poured forth his curses upon the whole race of barbers, predicting their ruin in the simplicity of style to be adopted by a future generation. The exact date of the parody is not known, part of it is quoted in the _Gradus ad Cantabrigiam_, which was published in 1824, it is also given in full in _Oxford and Cambridge Nuts to Crack_. A. H. Baily & Co., 1835. London. “Ruin seize thee, scoundrel Coe! Confusion on thy frizzing wait, Hadst thou the only comb below, Thou never more should’st touch my pate. Club nor queue, nor twisted tail, Nor e’en thy chattering, barber! shall avail To save thy horsewhipped back from daily fears, From Cantabs’ curse, from Cantabs’ tears!” Such were the sounds that o’er the powder’d pride Of Coe the barber scatter’d wild dismay, As down the steep of Jackson’s slippery lane He wound with puffing march his toilsome tardy way. In a room where Cambridge town Frowns o’er the kennels’ stinking flood, Robed in a flannel powdering gown, With haggard eyes poor Erskine stood! (Long his beard, and blowzy hair, Stream’d like an old wig to the troubled air); And with clung guts, and face than razor thinner, Swore the loud sorrows of his dinner. Hark! how each striking clock and tolling bell, With awful sounds, the hour of eating tell! O’er thee, oh Coe! their dreadful notes they wave, Soon shall such sounds proclaim thy yawning grave; Vocal in vain, through all this lingering day, The grace already said, the plates all swept away. “Cold is Beau **** tongue, That soothed each virgin’s pain; Bright perfumed M ** has cropp’d his head: Almacks, you moan in vain! Each youth whose high toupee Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-capp’d head In humble Tyburn-top we see; Esplash’d with dirt and sun-burn’d face; Far on before the ladies mend their pace, The Macaroni sneers, and will not see. Dear lost Companions of the coxcomb’s art, Dear as a turkey to these famish’d eyes, Dear as the ruddy port which warms my heart, Ye sunk amidst the fainting misses’ cries―― No more I weep――They do not sleep: At yonder ball, a slovenly band, I see them sit; they linger yet Avengers of fair Nature’s hand; With me in dreadful resolution join To crop with one accord, and starve thy cursed line.