Classic Poem

If on your head some vengeance fell,
M — ra, for every tale you tell,
The listening Lords to cozen;
If but one whisker lost its hue,
Changed (like Moll Coggin's tail) to blue,
I'd hear them by the dozen.

But still, howe'er you draw your bow,
Your charms improve, your triumphs grow,
New grace adorns your figure;
More stiff your boots, more black your stock,
Your hat assumes a prouder cock,
Like Pistol's (if 'twere bigger.)

Tell then your stories, strange and new,
Your Father's fame shall vouch them true;
So shall the Dublin Papers:
Swear by the stars that saw the sight,
That infant thousands die each night,
While troops blow out their tapers .

Sh — br — h shall cheer you with a smile,
M — cph — rs — n simpering all the while,
With B — st — rd and with Bruin:
And fierce N — ch — ll, who wields at will
The emphatic stick, or powerful quill,
To prove his country's ruin.

Each day new followers crowd your board,
And lean expectants hail my Lord
With adoration fervent:
Old Th — rl — w, though he swore by G —
No more to own a master's nod,
Is still your humble servant.

Old P — lt — n — y too your influence feels,
And asks from you the Exchequer seals,
To tax and save the nation:
T — ke trembles, lest your potent charms
Should lure C — s F — x from his fond arms,
To YOUR Administration.