In a room where Cambridge town
Frowns o'er the kennel's stinking flood,
Rob'd in a flannel powd'ring gown,
With haggard eyes poor Erskine stood;
(Long his beard and blouzy hair
Stream'd like an old wig to the troubled air;)
And with clung guts, and face than razor thinner,
Swore the loud sorrows of his dinner.
Hark! how each striking clock and tolling bell,
With awful sounds, the hour of eating tell!
O'er thee, oh Coe! their dreadful notes they wave,
Soon shall such sounds proclaim thy yawning grave;
Vocal in vain, through all this ling'ring day,
The grace already said, the plates all swept away.