A thing my dear Lord, that I ne'er should have thought on
Was to hear at Marseilles that you was at Houghton
With roast beef and plumb-pudding are treating the Russ
While the Austrian Ambassador adds to the fuss,
But your looks tell them both you think of your Son
Whom here to the Garcons, I say is my own
And his wife is so pretty, so sweet a musician,
that wants only cramming and not a Physician
Turtle Soup — Asses Milk — good porridge all that
And much more would I give her to make her quite fat
But — I wish you of Blessed years at least have a million,
to enjoy all the honours of Brighton's Pavillion
Where an order I hear is created for Dames
of high Beauty and wit and Poetical Fames
I suppose the next order your bosom may cover
Will be the most Royal  Cross of Hanover
is the Thought for 'tis clear
A Tedescan order must honour a Peer
An Old Peer of England by inheritance too;
But unless he is fond of a Bauble that's new —
He'll find himself one worth twenty times two
of gravens new made, tho like me, saucy Elf,
you might claim a  from Witikind's self:
but before to the land of Sour Crout you are Roving
to my own native shore I shall be moving
and I hope I shall find you by my wise injunctions
having fill'd up Canals and all their vile junctions —
for till that is perform'd, as you know I'm no frog
Live I cannot where reigns a perpetual fog,
and my Rose-color'd mind like Flora's true Rose
must droop and be kill'd where the sun never glows;
vice-versa, so here as it shines every day
my muse she will laugh, dance, sing or play
And I thought she might just as well dictate a Letter
To make you like mamselle  somewhat better
than you did when I shew'd you her name in a box
which set you a screaming like Berkeley's game cocks —
and so furious you look'd that she ran away
but now has most humbly desired me to say;
she only ran away to come and fight another day.
if my verse is irregular, you may thank yourself
for with me you are an irregular Elf —
there are times when all that I do is most charming;
at others, the very best jest is alarming.
you never can blame
the froth of a cream when the fond is the same
for howe'er I may trifle with those I don't know
I am always with those that I love, statu quo,
and you to this Latin, add,
for my constant esteem for you is no jest,
And tho' you forget me for Ages when near you
no time or events from my friendship can tear you.