Hither From Mexico I Came, To Serve A Proud Iernian Dame: Was Long Submitted To Her Will; At Length She Lost Me At Quadrille. Through Various Shapes I Often Pass'D, Still Hoping To Have Rest At Last; And Still Ambitious To Obtain Admittance To The Patriot Dean; And Sometimes Got Within His Door, But Soon Turn'D Out To Serve The Poor:[1] Not Strolling Idleness To Aid, But Honest Industry Decay'D. At Length An Artist Purchased Me, And Wrought Me To The Shape You See. This Done, To Hermes I Applied: "O Hermes! Gratify My Pride; Be It My Fate To Serve A Sage, The Greatest Genius Of His Age; That Matchless Pen Let Me Supply, Whose Living Lines Will Never Die!" "I Grant Your Suit," The God Replied, And Here He Left Me To Reside.