Epistle To Mr. Murray 1. My dear Mr. Murray, You're in a damned hurry To set up this ultimate Canto; But (if they don't rob us) You'll see Mr. Hobhouse Will bring it safe in his portmanteau. 2. For the Journal you hint of, As ready to print off, No doubt you do right to commend it; But as yet I have writ off The devil a bit of Our "Beppo:"—when copied, I'll send it. 3. In the mean time you've "Galley" Whose verses all tally, Perhaps you may say he's a Ninny, But if you abashed are Because of Alashtar, He'll piddle another Phrosine. 4. Then you've Sotheby's Tour,— No great things, to be sure,— You could hardly begin with a less work; For the pompous rascallion, Who don't speak Italian Nor French, must have scribbled by guess-work. 5. No doubt he's a rare man Without knowing German Translating his way up Parna**us, And now still absurder He meditates Murder As you'll see in the trash he calls Ta**o's. 6. But you've others his betters The real men of letters Your Orators—Critics—and Wits— And I'll bet that your Journal (Pray is it diurnal?) Will pay with your luckiest hits. 7. You can make any loss up With "Spence" and his gossip, A work which must surely succeed; Then Queen Mary's Epistle-craft, With the new "Fytte" of "Whistlecraft," Must make people purchase and read 8. Then you've General Gordon, Who girded his sword on, To serve with a Muscovite Master, And help him to polish A nation so owlish, They thought shaving their beards a disaster. 9. For the man, "poor and shrewd," With whom you'd conclude A compact without more delay, Perhaps some such pen is Still extant in Venice; But please, Sir, to mention your pay. 10. Now tell me some news Of your friends and the Muse, Of the Bar, or the Gown, or the House, From Canning, the tall wit, To Wilmot, the small wit, Ward's creeping Companion and Louse, 11. Who's so damnably bit With fashion and Wit, That he crawls on the surface like Vermin, But an Insect in both,— By his Intellect's growth, Of what size you may quickly determine.