ODE TO A (LONDON) "LARK."(Some Way after Quisquis.)Oh, "lark," which all the "Comiques" sing,And every drunken rowdy pup, too;Sure you're a vicious, vulgar thingAs ever toper swigged a cup to.Hints of the boozy and the blueSurround you; sodden brains you soften;Yet rhymsters make a song of you,And rowdies sing it—far too often.The aim of every loose-lipped loutAppears to be to "lark" divinely;When from his haunts he gets chucked out,He deems his "spree" has ended finely.He tracks the "lark"—aye, "like a bird,"Upon the turf, among its "daisies";But, by sweet Shelley, 'tis absurd,Foul bird of prey, to pipe your praises!