Oh Muse! I feel my genius rise On soaring pinions to the skies. Whom shall I sing? The Muse replies--- Old Dobbin. Come then, sweet Goddess, come, I pray, Assist me with responsive lay, To all I sing you need but say Old Dobbin. Who, in this world of varying ill, Keeps on his even tenor still, Nor fails his duty to fulfil? Old Dobbin. Who, while with passions men are blind, Ne'er lets impatience stir his mind, But jogs on steady, slow and kind? Old Dobbin. Who, ne'er for taunt nor scoff will budge, But goes along with easy trudge, As grave and solemn as a judge? Old Dobbin. Who like a Stoick, scorns disgrace, Nor e'er exults in pride of place, But does each task with equal grace? Old Dobbin. Who then, celestial Muse, may claim The high reward of spotless fame, The glory of a deathless name? Old Dobbin.