John Watson Dalby

O DAINTY diamond-ornamented fingers,

Puzzling plain folks, and leading some astray

Who pore o’er panes where the inscription lingers

Recording jovial rest, or anxious stay,

I rather wish your Latin were away,

Although the epigrams are obvious stingers;

And the fine Roman hand—it makes one say,

Was ’t Coleridge, Southey, Lamb—was ’t one of Earth’s fine singers?

“One touch,” et cætera;—banter as they may,

We see ourselves in him who could not pass

Nor leave remembrance of himself some way,

Though ’t were but on the fragile face of glass.

And who this mild ambition would gainsay

In my opinion writes himself an ass!