To save th' Old Bailey daily shilling, And then to take a half-year's filling In P.N.'s pious Row-- When ask'd to Hock and haunch o' ven'son, Thro' something we have worn our pens on For Longman and his Co. XXI. O come and tell us what the Pole is-- Whether it singular and sole is,-- Or straight, or crooked bent,-- If very thick or very thin,-- Made of what wood--and if akin To those there be in Kent? XXII. There's Combe, there's Spurzheim, and there's Gall, Have talk'd of poles--yet, after all, What has the public learn'd? And Hunt's account must still defer,-- He sought the _poll_ at Westminster-- And is not yet _return'd_! XXIII. Alvanly asks if whist, dear soul, Is play'd in snow-towns near the Pole, And how the fur-man deals? And Eldon doubts if it be true, That icy Chancellors really do Exist upon the _seals_! XXIV. Barrow, by well-fed office grates, Talks of his own bechristen'd Straits, And longs that he were there; And Croker, in his cabriolet, Sighs o'er his brown horse, at his Bay, And pants to cross the _mer_! XXV. O come away, and set us right, And, haply, throw a northern light On questions such as these:-- Whether, when this drown'd world was lost. The surflux waves were lock'd in frost, And turned to Icy Seas! XXVI. Is Ursa Major white or black? Or do the Polar tribes attack Their neighbors--and what for? Whether they ever play at cuffs, And then, if they take off their muffs In pugilistic war? XXVII. Tells us, is _Winter_ champion there, As in our milder fighting air? Say, what are _Chilly_ loans? What cures they have for rheums beside, And if their hearts get ossified From eating bread of bones? XXVIII. Whether they are such dwarfs--the quicker To circulate the vital liquor,-- And then, from head to heel-- How short the Methodists must choose Their dumpy envoys not to lose Their toes in spite of zeal? XXIX. Whether 'twill soften or sublime it To preach of Hell in such a climate-- Whether may Wesley hope To win their souls--or that old function Of seals--with the extreme of unction-- Bespeaks them for the Pope? XXX. Whether the lamps will e'er be "learn'd" Where six months' "midnight oil" is burn'd Or Letters must confer With people that have never conn'd An A, B, C, but live beyond The _Sound of Lancaster_! XXXI. O come away at any rate-- Well hast thou earn'd a downier state-- With all thy hardy peers-- Good lack, thou must be glad to smell dock, And rub thy feet with opodeldock, After such frosty years. XXXII. Mayhap, some gentle dame at last, Smit by the perils thou hast pass'd. However coy before, Shall bid thee now set up thy rest In that _Brest Harbor_, woman's breast, And tempt the Fates no more! ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D.[25]