(_Our own Riddle_).
Take the year of the Plague, and the month of the Fire,
Take Phœbus-Apollo, with hand on his lyre,
Take a Jew's famous eye, and the eye of the Pope,
And a building where foolish young novices mope,
And a sprat (but alive), and the name of a town,
And a greenhorn by sharpers done awfully brown,
A tree without bark, and a play without plot,
And that isle where as yet Uncle Sam reigneth not,
Take a maid who's had warning, a gun without powder,
The word that makes Englishmen prouder and prouder,
Pick from each but one letter—it lies in the middle,
You'll find what you'll be when you find out this riddle.
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