My task is done! but, ere I "drown my book,"
And "break my staff," I'll take a parting look.
If I have made a fool, in sportive fit,
A lapstone meet, whereon to shape my wit,
So gently have I used him, that, with care,
He'll serve my purpose for another year:
As old Majendie skinned the Italian hound,
And time too short for demonstration found,
Then told his pupils, if they managed right,
They'd keep the dog alive another night.
Of embryo asses I've a pretty store,
Who crave a flaying in a twelvemonth more;
Subjects of every colour and complexion,
Contending for the honour of dissection;
While some there are, who, blest in their condition,
Would waive the honours of my exhibition.
As bashful Bishops, at an ordination,
Cry "Nolo," to the gentle invitation:
And some, the only merit of whose life
Will be, their forming victims for my knife.
Now, John,—not Sir John Ross—I mean John Bull
Thou silly, soft, good-natured, guileless gull!
Why wilt thou let each knave enrich his nest
With treasures pilfered from thy downy breast?
Pill-bolting glutton of all sorts of trash!
In jest or earnest needing still the lash,
Thy cure (no sinecure) will keep, I fear,
My rod in pickle for another year.