Next, a smart little gentleman march'd with a stare up,
A smoothing his neckcloth, and patting his hair up;
And with bows and grimaces quadrillers might follow,
Said, " he own'd that his face was unknown to Apollo;
~92~~
But he held in hand what must be his apology,
A short treatise he'd written on _British Geology_;
And this journal, he hoped, of his studies last week,
In philosophy, chemistry, logic, and Greek,
Might appear on perusal: but not to go far
In proclaiming his merits--his name was Tom Carr:
And for proofs of his talents, deserts, and what not,
He appeal'd to Miss Baillie, Lord Byron, and Scott."
Here his speech was cut short by a hubbub below,
And in walk'd Messrs. Maturin, Cookesly, and Co.,
And begg'd leave to present to his majesty's finger--
If he'd please to accept--No. 5 of the Linger.{5}
Mr. Maturin "hoped he the columns would view
With unprejudiced judgment, and give them their due,
Nor believe all the lies, which perhaps he had seen,
In that vile publication, that base magazine,{6}
Which had dared to impeach his most chaste lucubrations,
Of obscenity, nonsense, and such accusations.
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