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Dost ask, dear Captain, why from Syme I have no invitation, When well he knows he has with him My first friends in the nation? Is it because I love to toast, And round the bottle hurl? No! there conjecture wild is lost, For Syme by God's no churl! Is't lest with bawdy jests I bore, As oft the matter of fact is? No! Syme the theory can't abhor Who loves so well the practice. Is it a fear I should avow Some heresy seditious? No! Syme (but this is entre nous) Is quite an old Tiresias. In vain Conjecture thus would flit Thro' mental clime and season: In short, dear Captain, Syme's a Wit Who asks of Wits a reason? Yet must I still the sort deplore That to my griefs add one more, In balking me the social hour With you and noble Kenmure.