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Rh Has latterly committed what he calls A Ballad of London—London 'Town,' of course— And he has wished that I pass judgment on it. He says there is a 'generosity' About it, and a 'sympathetic insight;' And there are strong lines in it, so he says. But who am I that he should make of me A judge? You are his friend, and you know best The measure of his jingle. I am old, And you are young. Be sure, I may go back To squeak for you the tunes of yesterday On my old fiddle—or what's left of it— And give you as I'm able a young sound; But all the while I do it I remain One of Apollo's pensioners (and yours), An usher in the Palace of the Sun, A candidate for mattocks and trombones (The brass-band will be indispensable), A patron of high science, but no critic. So I shall have to tell him, I suppose, That I read nothing now but Wordsworth, Pope, Lucretius, Robert Burns, and William Shakespeare. Now this is Mr. Killigrew's performance: