Classic Poem

A scribe, who, twenty years ago,
Sold printed lies in Salford town,
To puff dear waves, made dear by law,
Said, “Elliott's lyre grates like a saw;”
(Because its strings were shaking down
The worst rogues that the world e'er saw.)
He died, and, then, another found
That my old lyre “An organ was,
On which I still the cornlaws ground,
To my old creaking tune.” Alas!
The worthy brothers might have shown,
That Elliott's lyre is not his own.
A certain T. P. Thompson bought
Of one A. Smith the “creaking thing,”
And sent it to me, charging nought
For it, and many a brave new string,
That gave its chords a trumpet's tone.
And guilty Fear's conviction brought
To brains of mud, and hearts of stone.