I am the doughty, the illustrious beast,
    Called Leo, father of the Panther young,
  Tho’ last begotten, not belov’d the least,
    You all know I have a roast beef tongue: 
  Then, hear my John Bull clamour, hear my shout! 
  Why, why the d——­, roust we all tarn out?

  Did I not keep a beef-eater below
    To show the ladies to my monarch cave? 
  I kept a constant levee day of show,
    And seldom monarchs so polite behave! 
  You paid far less for seeing me, I ken,
  Than porterage for seeing noble men.

  Did I not eat my supper in your presence. 
    And gnaw the beef bone with a greedy tusk? 
  Did you not shudder at the marrow’s essence,
    Not quite so beautiful or sweet as musk? 
  Did I not ope my lion fauces wider
  Than is the difference ’twixt Moore and Ryder?

  Then, why the d——?—­I’m obliged to swear! 
    Must we turn out, to grace the monarch’s mews,
  From the thronged Strand which seemed our native air,
    And, where as thick as piety in pews,
  We growl’d within our dens, nor hop’d to change,
  Nor wish’d, Instead of Exeter, a change.

  Sweet lovely corner, neighb’ring the Lyceum,
    Lord of whose showy board I used to crow. 
  Frighting my brethren when folks came to see ’em,
    Or cutlery of Mr. Clarke below;
  I mourn thee in the King’s Mews, Mr. Cross
  Get Mr. Southey’s muse to sing my loss.

  Yes, I am chang’d, like shillings from the Mint
    Sent forth to find another one’s protection! 
  Chang’d as palaver which the members print
    And do not follow after their election! 
  Ah!  Mr. Cross, your gratitude is low,
  You might have ask’d me where I wish’d to go.

  Since we have turn’d out, like a minister
    Whose day of residence on loaves and fishes,
  Finding himself unable to defer,
    He offers up, as if ’twere to his wishes;
  Listen, tho’ lately coming, to my moan,
  And then I’ll tell you where we should have gone.

  The Monkeys should have dwelt in the Arcade,
    And join’d their fellows, and their brethren Ape
  Sat in the shop where clothes are ready made,
    To show how elegant they fit the shape! 
  The Bears gone westward also, ne’er to range
  The city, lest they got upon the Change.

  The Tigers, with their talons might have got
    A place as blood letters to Dr. Brooks! 
  The Ounces found themselves a cosy spot
    In a confectioner’s or pastrycook’s,
  And yet I question howsoe’er they bake,
  That sixteen ounces make not a pound-cake.

  And, O, you Elephant!—­I beg your pardon! 
    Dead Chunee! listen to my grave petition,
  And take your ivory to Covent Garden;
    That they may furnish me a free admission,
  And you, you Lynx, you ought to out, and sally
  The Winter Theatres, or dark blind alley.