Classic Poem

Within a certain Suburb Ward,
To all the Town well known
Where Whigs of every Rank may lick
The Drivell of old Tone — —
'Twas there, no worth the drery Morn
The Causes Friends were met,
Their Tongues to rail prepared were
Their Teeth for grinning set:
With flapping Ears, and sweating Locks
Their Scalps adorned were;
There stinking Breath from empty Gut
Did all perfume the Air.
A Taylor led the Doughty Gang
With jaws of yellow hew,
Like Spanish Needle, sharp and long
And a Protestant true:
He came to Church, (forgive him Heav'n)
And spoke full many a word,
With his fring'd Eye-brows cock'd he stared
But it signifie'd not a T — — ,
Now as the King of France of old
With forty thousand Men
March'd up the Hill, and then alas!
Came sneaking down agen;
So (great in Prowess) as they thought,
The Whigs they did advance,
But look'd as silly, when they'd done,
As did that King of France.
I would to God that all men were
So wise as they should be,
For then old England were secure
To all Posterity.