Baron George Gordon Byron Byron

The angels all were singing out of tune,

And hoarse with having little else to do,

Excepting to wind up the sun and moon,

Or curb a runaway young star or two,

Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon

Broke out of bounds o’er th’ ethereal blue,

Splitting some planet with its playful tail,

This by the way: ‘tis not mine to record

What angels shrink from: even the very devil

On this occasion his own work abhorr’d,

So surfeited with the infernal revel:

Though he himself had sharpen’d every sword,

It almost quench’d his innate thirst of evil.

(Here Satan’s sole good work deserves insertion —

‘Tis, that he has both generals in reveration.)

In the first year of freedom’s second dawn

Died George the Third; although no tyrant, one

Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn

Left him nor mental nor external sun:

A better farmer ne’er brush’d dew from lawn,

A worse king never left a realm undone!

He died — but left his subjects still behind,

One half as mad — and t’other no less blind.