O Boswell, Bozzy, Bruce, what’re thy name,

Thou mighty shark for anecdote and fame,

Thou jackal, leading lion Johnson forth

To eat Macpherson midst his native north,

To frighten grave professors with his roar,

And shake the Hebrides from shore to shore,

Triumphant thou through time’s vast gulf shalt sail,

The pilot of our literary whale;

Close to the classic Rambler shalt thou cling,

Close as a supple courtier to a king;

Fate shall not shake thee off with all its power,

Stuck like a bat to some old ivied tower.

Nay, though thy Johnson ne’er had blessed thy eyes,

Paoli’s deeds had raised thee to the skies:

Yes, his broad wing had raised thee (no bad hack),

A tomtit twittering on an eagle’s back.