Richmond Lodge

Here wont the Dean, when he's to seek, To spunge a breakfast once a-week; To cry the bread was stale, and mutter Complaints against the royal butter. But now I fear it will be said, No butter sticks upon his bread. We soon shall find him full of spleen, For want of tattling to the queen; Stunning her royal ears with talking; His reverence and her highness walking: While Lady Charlotte, like a stroller, Sits mounted on the garden-roller. A goodly sight to see her ride, With ancient Mirmont at her side. In velvet cap his head lies warm, His hat, for show, beneath his arm.