Sad is my grief, and violent my rage, Furious I knock my head against the rail, That damns me to this miserable cage; Fierce as a Jack Tar with his well chew'd tail, I dash my spittle on the ground, and roar Loud as the trump to bid us be no more. I am the doughty, the illustrious beast, Called Leo, father of the Panther young, Tho' last begotten, not belov'd the least, You all know I have a roast beef tongue: Then, hear my John Bull clamour, hear my shout! Why, why the d----, roust we all tarn out? Did I not keep a beef-eater below To show the ladies to my monarch cave? I kept a constant levee day of show, And seldom monarchs so polite behave! You paid far less for seeing me, I ken, Than _porterage_ for seeing noble men. Did I not eat my supper in your presence. And gnaw the beef bone with a greedy tusk? Did you not shudder at the marrow's essence, Not quite so beautiful or sweet as musk? Did I not ope my lion fauces wider Than is the difference 'twixt Moore and Ryder? Then, why the d----?--I'm obliged to swear! Must we turn out, to grace the monarch's mews, From the thronged Strand which seemed our native air, And, where as thick as piety in pews, We growl'd within our dens, nor hop'd to change, Nor wish'd, Instead of Exeter, a change. Sweet lovely corner, neighb'ring the Lyceum, Lord of whose showy board I used to crow. Frighting my brethren when folks came to see 'em, Or cutlery of Mr. Clarke below; I mourn thee in the King's Mews, Mr. Cross Get Mr. Southey's muse to sing my loss. Yes, I am chang'd, like shillings from the Mint Sent forth to find another one's protection! Chang'd as palaver which the members print And do not follow after their election! Ah! Mr. Cross, your gratitude is low, You might have ask'd me where I wish'd to go. Since we have turn'd out, like a minister Whose day of residence on loaves and fishes, Finding himself unable to defer, He offers up, as if 'twere to his wishes; Listen, tho' lately coming, to my moan, And then I'll tell you where we _should_ have gone. The Monkeys should have dwelt in the Arcade, And join'd their fellows, and their brethren Ape Sat in the shop where clothes are ready made, To show how elegant they fit the shape! The Bears gone westward also, ne'er to range The city, lest they got upon the Change. The Tigers, with their talons might have got A place as blood letters to Dr. Brooks! The Ounces found themselves a cosy spot In a confectioner's or pastrycook's, And yet I question howsoe'er they bake, That _sixteen ounces_ make not a _pound_-cake. And, O, you Elephant!--I beg your pardon! Dead Chunee! listen to my grave petition, And take your ivory to Covent Garden; That they may furnish me a free admission, And you, you Lynx, you ought to out, and sally The Winter Theatres, or dark blind alley.