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 R. HOGBIN,—I work as a weaver—of rhyme—
 * And therefore presume with a working-man’s grace,

To address you as one I have liked for some time,
 * Though I know not (no doubt it’s a fine one) your face.

There is much in a name, and I’ll lay you a wager
 * (Two ale-jugs from Reynolds’66), that Nature designed,

When she formed you, that you should become the drum-major
 * In that choice piece of music, the Grand March of Mind.

A Hogbin! a Hogbin! how cheering the shout
 * Of all that keep step to that beautiful air,

Which leads, like the treadmill, about and about,
 * And leaves us exactly, at last, where we were!

Yes, there’s much in a name, and a Hogbin’s so fit is
 * For that great moral purpose whose impulse divine