Epitaph on a Well-Known Poet--(Robert Southey.)

Beneath these poppies buried deep,
The bones of Bob the bard lie hid;
Peace to his manes; and may he sleep
As soundly as his readers did!

Through every sort of verse meandering,
Bob went without a hitch or fall,
Through Epic, Sapphic, Alexandrine,
To verse that was no verse at all;

Till fiction having done enough,
To make a bard at least absurd,
And give his readers QUANTUM SUFF.,
He took to praising George the Third:
And now, in virtue of his crown,
Dooms us, poor whigs, at once to slaughter,
Like Donellan of bad renown,
Poisoning us all with laurel-water.

And yet at times some awkward qualms he
Felt about leaving honor's track;
And though he's got a butt of Malmsey,
It may not save him from a sack.

Death, weary of so dull a writer,
Put to his works a FINIS thus.
Oh! may the earth on him lie lighter
Than did his quartos upon us!