Squibs, Crackers, Serpents, Rockets, Bengal Lights

Squibs, crackers, serpents, rockets, Bengal lights,
Lead thousands running to the Dardanelles,
Where girls by sackfuls bubble thro' the wave;
I, leaving good old Homer, not o'erlong,
Enjoy the merriment of Chaucer's tales
Or louder glee of the large-hearted Burns,
And then partaking Southey's wholesome fare,
Plenteous and savoury without spice, I turn
To my own sofa, where incontinent
Wordsworth's low coo brings over me sound sleep.