The Fox-Chace, XXIV

I do not rhyme to that dull clown That has no fancy of his own; Who thinks on Flodden’s dreary plain The wearied hunters still remain, Because not mentioned in my strain; Who cannot figure in his mind, That they returned to Dunse and dined; That flowing bumpers then went round To every horse, to every hound; That e’en midst jokes, and converse hot. The Goblin Groom was not forgot; And that they sat ’twixt hope and fear, To see his Elfin form appear; And that they drank, with honours due, In three times three, the bold B——h; And midst the wassel-wine and cheer, They thought on D——h’s noble Peer; And crowned in bowls of rosy wine, The whole of that illustrious line.