  We strain our strings thus tight, Our voices pitch thus high, A song to indite That nevermore shall die. The Poet being divine Admits no social sin, Spurring with wine And lust the Muse within. Finding no use at all In arms or civic deeds, Perched on a wall Fulfilling fancy’s needs. Let parents, children, wife, Be ghosts beside his art, Be this his life To hug the snake to his heart. Sad souls, the more we stress The advantage of our crown, So much the less Our welcome by the Town, By the gross and rootling hog Who grunts nor lifts his head, By jealous dog Or old ass thistle-fed. By so much less their praise, By so much more our glory. Grim pride outweighs The anguish of our story. We strain our strings thus tight, Our voices pitch thus high, To enforce our right Over futurity. |
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