There was once an old sage—'twas some d—d fool or other—how
'Tis I don't know, on his name I can't fix—
But he wrote nine huge folios and tried to discover how
Solids and fluids most properly mix —
I've found out the secret so long from his view hid,
I found it—and let every friend I have share it,—
The properest mixture of solid and fluid.
Is a dinner like this one well washed down with Claret.
Then here's to the being still free and light-hearted,
Who ne'er cares o'er the woes of this world to repine,
But tho' he and false Fortune be long ago parted,
Still moistens his woes with a bumper of wine.
No, neither sinecure, nor mastership in chancery,
Nor post, nor place, nor pension for a younger son!
Hume, Grote, and vile Lord John have dished our only chance or I
Might help you, but our halcyon days are almost gone;
A failing bar, a falling bench, and, what must most disgust us is
No hope for briefless barristers, no hole for Lord Augustuses:
The fact is, dear Sir Robert, (to conceal it were hypocrisy)
Lord Brougham and Vaux, the man that talks, has swamped the aristocracy.
Thus you may see neither sinecure nor chancery.
Nor post, nor place, avail us now for younger sons.