Come, fill up your glasses, whatever you drink,
(I shall hold him a muff who endeavours to slink,)
Here's success to the "long tails," their owners, and all,
Who are fond of the sport, whether great folks or small.
Singing, gently, so ho ! halloo, let 'em go,
There's nothing can stop 'em except frost or snow
Impromptu.
Written on viewing the body of a young man who was killed by lightning, at Charlbury, Oxfordshire, July 19, 1844.
And he is dead, and stiff, and cold, and motionless, who, but an hour agone was full of lusty life, of youth and vigour; whose warm heart's blood ran gaily dancing through a giant frame; whose stalwart build might almost mock at Time, and, in its seeming strength, defy disease. And now, behold!—a few brief moments gone, a clammy, ghastly corpse is all remains!
Look on, I pray you all, and ponder well, on this "stern monument" of life's uncertainty!
