MY Gartmore friends a blessing on ye,
And all that's good still light upon ye!
Will you allow this hobbling rhyme
To tell you how I pass my time?
'Tis true I write in shorten'd measure,
Because I scrawl but at my leisure;
For why? — sublimity of style
Takes up a most prodigious while;
To count with fingers six or seven,
And mind that syllables are even, —
To make the proper accent fall,
La! 'tis the very deuce of all:
Alternate verse, too, makes me think
How to get t'other line to clink;
And then your odes with two lines rhyming,
An intermitting sort of chiming,
Just like the bells on birth-days ringing,
Or like your friend S. Blamire's singing,
Which only pleases those whose ears
Ne'er heard the music of the spheres.
As for this measure, these trite strains
Give me no sort of thought or pains;
If that the first line ends with head,
Why then the rhyme to that is bed;
And so on through the whole essay,
For careless ease makes out my say;
And if you'll let me tell you how
I pass my time, I'll tell you now.