The braziers, it seems, are preparing to pass
An address, and present it themselves all in brass,--
A superfluous pageant-for, by the Lord Harry!
They'll find where they're going much more than they carry.
More verses by George Gordon Byron
- From Anacreon: 'Twas Now The Hour When Night Had Driven
- Fragment Of An Epistle To Thomas Moore
- Epitaph For William Pitt
- Translation Of A Romaic Love Song
- Epitaph On John Adams, Of Southwell - A Carrier, Who Died Of Drunkenness
