To Mr. Murray

Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times,
Patron and publisher of rhymes,
For thee the bard up Pindus climbs,
My Murray.

To thee, with hope and terror dumb,
The unfledged MS. authors come;
Thou printest all--and sellest some--
My Murray.

Upon thy table's baize so green
The last new Quarterly is seen,--
But where is thy new Magazine,
My Murray?

Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine
The works thou deemest most divine--
The Art of Cookery, and mine,
My Murray.

Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist,
And Sermons, to thy mill bring grist;
And then thou hast the _Navy List_,
My Murray.

And Heaven forbid I should conclude,
Without "the Board of Longitude,"
Although this narrow paper would,
My Murray.