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He made a cry throughout all the town, Whether he be yeoman or knave, That could bring him Robin Hood, His warison he should have.

Other sham antiques are slug-horn, Chatterton's absurd perversion of the Gaelic slogan, war-cry, copied by Browning— "Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set, And blew 'Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came.'" and Scott's extraordinary misuse of warison, security, a doublet of garrison, as though it meant "war sound"— "Or straight they sound their warison, And storm and spoil thy garrison."

Having wound up with this sublime comparison, Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative, And, as my friend Scott says, 'I sound my warison;' Scott, the superlative of my comparative— Scott, who can paint your Christian knight or Saracen, Serf, lord, man, with such skill as none would share it, if There had not been one Shakspeare and Voltaire, Of one or both of whom he seems the heir.

Wherefore shoot, archers, for my sake, And let sharp arrows flee; Minstrels, play up for your warison, And well quit it shall be.