Classic Poem

When Boys at Eton once a Year
In military Pomp appear,
He who just trembled at the Rod,
Treads it a Heroe , talks a God ,
And in an Instant can create
A dozen Officers of State .
His little Legion all assail,
Arrest without Release or Bail:
Each passing Traveller must halt,
Must pay the Tax , and eat the Salt .
You don't love Salt , you say — — — and storm — —
Look o'these Staves , Sir — — — and Conform ;
But yet this Sun , that shines so bright,
In sable Gown will set at Night,
And Morn return with College Appetite.

Thus the new Favourite in his Plumes,
New Manners and new Airs assumes:
He who before was at your Whistle,
Begins to bully, frown, and bristle;
And to his Band of hireling Tartars
Gives Pensions, Places, Titles, Garters ;
His Schemes, his Projects, all must be,
A Law to Bob , his Grace , and Me :
His Friends stand close, and aid his Pow'r;
What, don't you like him? — — to the Tow'r .
You swear'tis strange — — but let this Fume
In busy Play itself consume:
See him chagrin at last retire
To a Welch Farm and Country Fire;
With this to comfort fallen State,
The Time has been when he was Great.