Yea, I will smite!  Grant me but “swerveless wynd,”
  And I will pipe a cadence rife with thrills;
With “nearness” and “foreverness” I’ll bind
  A “downflung sheaf” of outslants, paeans and trills;
Pass me th’ “quenchless gleam of Titian hair,”
  And eke th’ “oozing forest’s woozy clumps;”
Now will I go upon a metric tear
  And smite th’ lyre with great resounding thumps.

THE KING OF BRENTFORD’S TESTAMENT.

W. M. THACKERAY.

    The noble King of Brentford
      Was old and very sick,
    He summon’d his physicians
      To wait upon him quick: 
    They stepp’d into their coaches
      And brought their best physick.

    They cramm’d their gracious master
      With potion and with pill;
    They drenched him and they bled him: 
      They could not cure his ill. 
    “Go fetch,” says he, “my lawyer;
      I’d better make my will.”

    The monarch’s Royal mandate
      The lawyer did obey;
    The thought of six-and-eightpence
      Did make his heart full gay. 
    “What is’t,” says he, “your Majesty
      Would wish of me to-day?”

    “The doctors have belabour’d me
      With potion and with pill: 
    My hours of life are counted,
      O man of tape and quill! 
    Sit down and mend a pen or two;
      I want to make my will.

    “O’er all the land of Brentford
      I’m lord, and eke of Kew: 
    I’ve three-per-cents and five-per-cents;
      My debts are but a few;
    And to inherit after me
      I have but children two.

    “Prince Thomas is my eldest son;
      A sober prince is he,
    And from the day we breech’d him
      Till now—­he’s twenty-three—­
    He never caused disquiet
      To his poor mamma or me.

    “At school they never flogg’d him;
      At college, though not fast,
    Yet his little-go and great-go
      He creditably pass’d,
    And made his year’s allowance
      For eighteen months to last.

    “He never owed a shilling,
      Went never drunk to bed,
    He has not two ideas
      Within his honest head—­
    In all respects he differs
      From my second son, Prince Ned.

    “When Tom has half his income
      Laid by at the year’s end,
    Poor Ned has ne’er a stiver
      That rightly he may spend,
    But sponges on a tradesman,
      Or borrows from a friend.

    “While Tom his legal studies
      Most soberly pursues,
    Poor Ned must pass his mornings
      A-dawdling with the Muse: 
    While Tom frequents his banker,
      Young Ned frequents the Jews.

    “Ned drives about in buggies,
      Tom sometimes takes a ’bus;
    Ah, cruel fate, why made you
      My children differ thus? 
    Why make of Tom a dullard,
      And Ned a genius?’