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