The Poplar.
Ay, here stands the Poplar, so tall and so stately,
On whose tender rind — ’twas a little one then —
We carved her initials; though not very lately —
We think in the year eighteen hundred and ten.
Yes, here is the G which proclaimed Georgiana;
Our heart’s empress then; see, ’tis grown all askew;
And it’s not without grief we perforce entertain a
Conviction, it now looks much more like a Q.
This should be the great D too, that once stood for Dobbin,
Her lov’d patronymic — ah! can it be so?
It’s once fair proportions, time too, has been robbing;
A D? — we’ll be Deed if it isn’t an O!
Alas! how the soul sentimental it vexes,
That thus on our labours, stern Chronos should frown;
Should change our soft liquids to izzards and X es,
And turn true-love’s alphabet all upside down!