Lament, lament, Sir Isaac Heard, Put mourning round thy page, Debrett, For here lies one, who ne'er preferr'd A Viscount to a Marquis yet. Beside him place the God of Wit, Before him Beauty's rosiest girls, Apollo for a star he'd quit, And Love's own sister for an Earl's. Did niggard fate no peers afford, He took, of course, to peers' relations; And, rather than not sport a Lord, Put up with even the last creations. Even Irish names, could he but tag 'em With "Lord" and "Duke", were sweet to call; And, at a pinch, Lord Ballyraggum Was better than no Lord at all. Heaven grant him now some noble nook, For, rest his soul! he'd rather be Genteelly damn'd beside a Duke, Than sav'd in vulgar company. |