Oh, Muse of the red-hot satire,
Appear at my urgent spell:
I've no need for rattling lyre,
Give me the whip of Juvenal!
Not to translators ever cold,
Or imitators gaunt and bold,
Not to the lambs, who make the rhymes,
I'll send the pledge of epigrams!
Enjoy your peace, oh, bard, despondent,
The journal's creature-correspondent,
The dull humiliated slaves!
But you, 'good' fellows, you, knaves --
Step forward! All your blackguards' party
I'll sentence to the stake of shame,
And, if I will forget the name
Of somebody, please help me smartly!
A lot of faces, pale and sassy,
A lot of brows, wide and brassy,
Are ready to receive from me
The brand, that ever must there be.