104
The human beauties of the land
Must sit for days and hours,
To let the painter's mimic hand
Each feature scan—but flowers,
They think, may just be drawn
As ignorance may like them;
Leaves snipt and shaped, like gauze or lawn,
As whim or fancy strike them.
E'en "Botanists" mistake my form
That's seen by brook and fountain,[1]
For my rough cousin's,[2] who's clad warm,
To dwell on moor and mountain.
But this I'd pardon, if the Bards'
And Poetasters' chorus
Were silenced once—we'll give rewards
To all who'll no more bore us.
That silly Lover, tumbling down
And drowning in the Rhine,
First set the jingle-makers on,
And then that book of thine,
Oh! Ackermann! like finger-post,
Directed sumphs to me,
And e'er since then, the buzzing host
Have dinned incessantly.
