  Ay, here stands the Poplar, so tall and so stately, On whose tender rind—'twas a little one then— We carved her initials; though not very lately— We think in the year eighteen hundred and ten. Yes, here is the G which proclaimed Georgiana; Our heart's empress then; see, 'tis grown all askew; And it's not without grief we perforce entertain a Conviction, it now looks much more like a Q. This should be the great D too, that once stood for Dobbin, Her lov'd patronymic—ah! can it be so? Its once fair proportions, time too has been robbing; A D?—we'll be Deed if it isn't an O! Alas! how the soul sentimental it vexes, That thus on our labours stern Chronos should frown; Should change our soft liquids to izzards and X es, And turn true-love's alphabet all upside down! |
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