A word of eight letters, my emigrant friends,
Is one on which much of comfort depends,
It always is useful, but more so you’ll find,
Should your barque on the ocean be wanting of wind.
This word, though not long, will give ample assistance,
To bring upwards of forty short words to existence,
Perhaps when your vessel’s becalmed on the sea,
‘Twill amuse you to try and find what I can be.
In me you will find the first man that was born,
And ice that abounds in regions forlorn;
The back of the neck, the shepherd god Pan.
And also the letters for cat and tin pan.
John Bull must excuse my inelegant verse,
If I by my efforts some sad thoughts dispense,
Since, he promised, he wouldn’t his own help refuse
If some ‘busy brains’ would attempt to amuse.