About The Nightingale

  In stale blank verse a subject stale
  I send per post my Nightingale;
  And like an honest bard, dear Wordsworth,
  You'll tell me what you think, my Bird's worth.
  My own opinion's briefly this-
  His bill he opens not amiss;
  And when he has sung a stave or so,
  His breast, and some small space below,
  So throbs and swells, that you might swear
  No vulgar music's working there.
  So far, so good; but then, 'od rot him!
  There's something falls off at his bottom.
  Yet, sure, no wonder it should breed,
  That my Bird's Tail's a tail indeed
  And makes it's own inglorious harmony
  Æolio crepitû, non carmine.