Lord Byron most admired, we know,
    The Albanian dress, or Suliote;
  But then he died some years ago,
    And never saw Dick’s long-tail’d Coat.

  Or, past all doubt, the Poet’s theme
    Had never been the “White Capote,”
  Had he once view’d, in Fancy’s dream,
    The glories of Dick’s long-tail’d Coat.

  We also know on Highland kilt
    Poor dear Glengary used to dote,
  And had esteem’d it actual guilt
    I’ “the Gael” to wear a long-tail’d Coat,

  No wonder ’twould his eyes annoy,
    Monkbarns himself would never quote
  “Sir Robert Sibbald,” “Gordon,” “Roy,”
    Or “Stukely” for a long-tail’d Coat.

  Jackets may do to ride a race,
    Or row in, when one’s in a boat;
  But, in the Boudoir, sure, for grace
    There’s nothing like Dick’s long-tail’d Coat.

  Of course, in climbing up a tree,
    On terra firma, or afloat. 
  To mount the giddy top-mast, he
    Would doff awhile his long-tail’d Coat.

  What makes you simper, then, and sneer? 
    From out your own eye pull the mote;
  A pretty thing for you to jeer! 
    Haven’t you, too, got a long-tail’d Coat?

  Oh!  “Dick’s scarce old enough,” you mean? 
    Why, though too young to give a vote,
  Or make a will, yet, sure, Fifteen
    ’s a ripe age for a long-tail’d Coat.

  What! would you have him sport a chin
    Like Colonel Stanhope, or that goat
  O’Gorman Mahon, ere begin
    To figure in a long-tail’d Coat?

  Suppose he goes to France—­can he
    Sit down at any table d’hote,
  With any sort of decency,
    Unless he’s got a long-tail’d Coat?

  Why Louis Philippe, Royal Cit,
    There soon may be a sans culotte;
  And Nugents self must then admit
    The advantage of a long-tail’d Coat.

  Things are not now as when, of yore,
    In Tower encircled by a moat,
  The lion-hearted chieftain wore
    A corselet for a long-tail’d Coat.

  Then ample mail his form embraced,
    Not, like a weazel, or a stoat,
  “Cribb’d and confined” about the waist,
    And pinch’d in, like Dick’s long-tail’d Coat;—­

  With beamy spear, orbiting axe,
    To right and left he thrust and smote—­
  Ah! what a change! no sinewy thwacks
    Fall from a modern long tail’d Coat.

  For stalwart knights, a puny race
    In stays, with locks en papillote,
  While cuirass, cuisses, greaves give place
    To silk-net Tights, and long-tail’d Coat.

  Worse changes still! now, well-a-day! 
    A few cant phrases learnt by rote
  Each beardless booby spouts away,
    A Solon, in a long-tail’d Coat.

  Prates of “The march of intellect”—­
    —­“The schoolmaster” a Patriote
  So noble, who could ere suspect
    Had just put on a long-tail’d Coat?