III.

Mute now is Raymond’s tongue, That hushed the club to sleep; The patriot Whitcombe now has ceased to rail; Waiters in vain ye weep. Lawson,[58] whose annual song, Made the Red Lion[59] wag his raptur’d tail. Dear lost companions in the spouting art, Dear as the commons smoking in the hall, Dear as the audit ale that warms my heart Ye fell amidst the dying Union’s fall.