WHAT is London’s last new lion? Pray, inform me if you can;

Is’t a woman of Kamschatka or an Otaheite man?

For my conversazione you must send me something new,

Don’t forget me! Oh I sigh for the eclat of a debut!

I am sick of all the “minstrels,” all the “brothers” this and that,

Who sing sweetly at the parties, while the ladies laugh and chat;

And the man who play’d upon his chin is passÉ, I suppose

So try and find a gentleman who plays upon his nose.

Send half-a-dozen authors, for they help to fill a rout,

I fear I’ve worn the literary lionesses out!

Send something biographical, I think that fashion spreads,

But do not send a poet, till you find one with two heads.

The town has grown fastidious, we do not care a straw

And travellers are out of date, I mean to cut them soon,

Unless you send me some one who has travelled to the moon.

Oh, if you send a singer, he must sing without a throat!

Oh, if you send a player, he must harp upon one note!

I must have something marvellous, the marvel makes the man;

What is London’s last new lion? Pray, inform me if you can.