Classic Poem

It matters but little,
Whether high or low mettle ,
Or how we can talk or can sing;
How we humor the age,
From the pulpit or stage
To be rich, my dear Arthur's, the thing.

Of a scarf you can prate,
Put a gig in the pate
Of a parson ambitious and vain;
Who builds castles in air ,
Wou'd with bishops compare,
And talks in pontifical strain.

But as scarfless I go,
Am I humm'd, Sir, or no?
Will you cure or remove the disaster;
Prithee, Arthur, be plain,
Put me out of my pain;
Have you made my poor scarf- sticking plaster?

But all this by the bye,
To you, Sir, I apply,
As you know how at heels I am out ;
With my friends at the Tunns,
Mix goodness with funs,
And put my subscription about.

Think of all the mishaps,
On the knuckles what raps
For rhiming we poets receive;
How his aid to the muses
A blockhead refuses,
Nor a genius will ever relieve.

As you are loaded with sin,
My dear Arthur begin,
On the end of your charity think;
Reflect on past times,
And what numbers of crimes
We may hide with a bit of the chink.

If now I should succeed,
And my friends will but bleed ,
I'll descend from my starry Parnassus,
From my garret I'll come,
With my gub of the gum ,
And return you know who's squibs and dashes .