Fine and feathery artisan,

Best of Plumists (if you can

With your art so far presume)

Make for me a Prince's Plume—

Feathers soft and feathers rare,

Such as suits a Prince to wear.

  First thou downiest of men,

Seek me out a fine Pea-hen;

Such a Hen, so tall and grand,

As by Juno's side might stand,

If there were no cocks at hand.

Seek her feathers, soft as down,

Fit to shine on Prince's crown;

If thou canst not find them, stupid!

Ask the way of Prior's Cupid.

Ranging these in order due,

Pluck me next an old Cuckoo;

Emblem of the happy fates

Of easy, kind, cornuted mates.

Pluck him well—be sure you do—

Who wouldnt be an old Cuckoo,

Thus to have his plumage blest,

Beaming on a Royal crest?

  Bravo, Plumist!—now what bird

Shall we find for Plume the third?

You must get a learned Owl,

Bleakest of black-letter fowl—

Bigot bird that hates the light,[1]

Foe to all that's fair and bright.

Seize his quills, (so formed to pen

Books[2] that shun the search of men;

Books that, far from every eye,

In "sweltered venom sleeping" lie,)

Stick them in between the two,

Proud Pea-hen and Old Cuckoo.

Now you have the triple feather,

Bind the kindred stems together

With a silken tie whose hue

Once was brilliant Buff and Blue;

Sullied now—alas, how much!

Only fit for Yarmouth's touch.

  There—enough—thy task is done;

Present, worthy George's Son;

Now, beneath, in letters neat,

Write "I SERVE," and all's complete.

[1] Perceval.

[2] In allusion to "the Book" which created such a sensation at that period.