1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb
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