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.
L’Envoy,