The source does not disclose the composer of this setting of Johnson's words, guying some of the more earnest attitudes arising in the craze for employing hermits in landscaped parks.

Lyrics: Samuel Johnson

"Hermit hoar, in solemn cell,
Wearing out life's ev'ning grey,
Strike thy bosom, sage, and tell
Where is bliss and which the way?"
Thus we spoke, and speaking sighed,
Scarce repressed the starting tear;
When the smiling sage replied:
"Come, my lads, and drink some beer".