[Roger Slater]

O Poet, since thy song began,
I hear but don't rejoice.
O Wordsworth! shall I call thee Man,
Or but a pompous Voice?

While thou art lying on the grass
Thy onefold shout I hear,
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
So humourless and drear.

Though babbling only to the Vale,
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thy thoughts are dull, thy rhymes are stale,
Yet they go on for hours.

O blessed Man! the earth we share
I must confess I'd rather
Depart to go most anywhere
I wouldn't hear you blather.