Classic Poem

Of all the toasts that Britain boasts,
The gim, the gent, the jolly,
The brave, the fair, the debonair,
There's none cry'd up like Polly;
She's fir'd the town, has quite cut down
The opera of Rolli;
Go where you will, the subject still
Is pretty, pretty Polly.

There's Madam Faustina, Catso!
And eek Madam Cuzzoni;
Likewise Signor Senesino
Are tutti Abbandonni :
Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha, Do, Re, Mi, Fa,
Are now but farce and folly;
We're ravish'd all with Toll, Loll, Loll,
And pretty, pretty Polly.

The sons of Bayes in lyric lays
Sound forth their names in print-o;
And as we pass, in frame and glass
We see her mezzotint-o.
In Ivy Lane the city strain
Is now no more on Dolly,
And all the brights at Man's and White's
Of nothing talk but Polly.

Ah! Johnny Gay, thy lucky play
Has made the critics grin-a;
They cry 'tis flat, 'tis this, 'tis that,
But let them laugh that win-a;
I swear parbleu, 'tis naif and new,
Ill nature is but folly;
'Thas lent a stitch to rent of Rich,
And set up Madam Polly.

Ah, tuneful fair, beware, beware,
Nor toy with star and garter;
Fine cloaths may hide a foul inside,
And you may catch a tartar.
If powder'd fop blow up your shop
'Twill make you melancholy;
Then, left to rot, you'll die forgot.
Alas, Alas! poor Polly.