I’m afraid you expect a beautiful poem,
    Though I make a long and tedious proem,
    But great and dreadful are my fears,
    No poem of mine will put you in tears. 
    My genius suggests neither fairy nor witch,
    My tales to adorn with cauldrons of pitch,
    Alarm the world with fiery eyes,
    And from the hero snatch his prize,
    Leap out from her den with a terrible Bounce,
    And on the trembling damsel pounce,
    And bottle her up in a close corked Jar,
    Or whirl her away in a flaming car;
    Then her knight, the brave Sir Francis,
    Upon his noble steed advances,
    All his armour off he leaves,
    Preserves alone his polished greaves,
    His defence is a buff Jacket,
    Nor sword nor axe nor lance can crack it,
    It was made at Harrogate,
    By a tailor whose shop had a narrow gate;
    The elves attack with spears of barley,
    But he drives them off, oh! rarely,
    Then they shoot him with an Arrow,
    From bow-strings greased with ear-wigs’ marrow,
    The feathers, moth-wings downy velvet,
    The bow-strings, of the spider’s net: 
    Thousands come, armed in this pattern,
    Which proves their mistress is no slattern;
    Some wear the legs and hoof of Pan,
    And some are in the form of man;
    But the knight is armed, for in his pocket
    He has a talismanic locket,
    Which once belonged to Hercules,
    Who wore it on his bunch of keys;
    The fairy comes, quite old and fat,
    Mounted upon a monstrous Bat;
    Around the knight a web she weaves,
    And holds him fast, and there she leaves
    Sir Francis weeping for his charmer,
    And longing for his knightly armour. 
    But his sword was cast in the self-same forge
    As that of the great champion George;
    Thus he defies the witch’s army,
    He breaks his bands; ’Ye elves, beware me,
    I fear not your leviathan,
    No spells can stop a desperate man.’ 
    Away in terror flies the rear-guard,
    He seizes on the witch abhorred,
    Confines her in a cockle shell,
    And breaks all her enchantments fell,
    Catches her principal lieutenant,
    Makes him of a split pine the tenant;
    Carries away the lady, nimble,
    As e’er Miss Merton plied her Thimble;
    Oh! this story would your frowns unbend. 
    Could I tell it to the end.

‘Oh!’ said Rupert, glad to seize an opportunity of retaliating upon Elizabeth; ’I give you credit; a very ingenious compound of Thalaba, Pigwiggin, and the Tempest, and the circumstance of the witch whirling away the lady is something new.’

‘No, it is not,’ said Elizabeth; ’it is the beginning of the story of the Palace of Truth, in the Veillees du Chateau.  I only professed to conglomerate the words, not to pass off my story as a regular old traditional legend.’