So down thy hill, romantic Ashburn, glides The Derby Dilly, carrying three insides. One in each corner sits, and lolls at ease, With folded arms, proppd back, and outstretchd knees, While the pressd bodkin, punchd and squeezed to death, Sweats in the midmost place, and pants for breath. Canning.Loves of the Triangles, last lines.