A Burlesque Answer to the
Scurrilous Lampoon of the Blarites;
To their designed Tune or Lilt
of Gorgie Mills.
Ah me! what dismall day did pout?
What Stars were in conjunction?
When Tom fell out with Robbin's snout
And bang'd him with a Truncheon.
He curs'd his Foes and blew his Nose
To see if it were bleeding
Then flung the Snot in Tommys throte
And thoughtfully proceeding.
To Gorgie Mills in truced Flag,
They went & lickt ye Mooter,
The Bonnacks wag about their Crag
Like Bandeleers & powder.
Quoth Robbin, who art for I speer,
Come pray thee let me hear it?
Quoth Tommy I'm a Caveleer
And Bob said I'm a Blarite.
I know it, you so flung about
Your Snot upon your Betters
Since you have neither hand nor foot,
You fight like knave in Fetters.
But what's ye Subject of your Lilt?
'Tis every Reverend Rascall,
That dares our pens or pencils Guilt,
Which ye our Native Brass call.
Who ere his Quill or Lungs doth move
for Truth or dares be Loyall
Against a Blairite, Him (by Jove)
We use like Drug in Viall.
Thô nere so bright throughout, if there's
Least Sedement in Bottom,
We shake, till he all Mudd appears,
And make a drownded Ratt 'on.
The Sober Clerk shall be a Fooll,
The Debonair a Drunkard;
The Trusty Pulpet-man a Tooll,
The Courtly Priest, a Punkard.
Now turn ye Glass & tell me Bob,
The manners of a Blarite?
He courts the Mob, and spurns ye Nob,
And struts because he dare it.
He's never high while he can spie
One higher Set, but Growling
(Like Smoke) he flies into your eyes,
And Swelleth upward rowling.
He wheedles for his Ax a Helve,
That falls ye Grove yt. gave it:
The Ladder yt. he mounts by Stealth,
So soon as up, he'll stave it.
Beyond ye Beam in our own eyes
we strech ye Mote in others:
Our faults ye Microscope describes,
The Telescope our Brothers.
Chasheering such from Benefice,
or from ye Land o'th Living:
Nor Canons we, nor Witnesses
Regard, when we're Depriving.
We Blacken him dead yt. dares us read
or Spell our hidden vices:
But if he bee our Votaree,
Thô Black as Devil, He white is.
If caught, when we, do naughtilee
By him yt. we must fawn on;
We own ye Fact might have been Black
Had we but known ye Canon.
Bride Betty weigh'd so many a pound,
Scare cou'd ye Maidens Clean'r all;
The County Judge did Licence Crown,
We swore it was the Generall.
As our Oath had force permutative,
By this our spitefull Mis-hap:
So pudding bagg shall be lawn Sleeve
When our great B's a Bishop.
Thanks for this naked veritee,
May I request another?
Who wast made your Lampoon? two? three?
Yourself or was't a Brother?
He's Physicall Astrologer,
And who is he so bold yt. dare
Command him to Contrition?
The Stars & all their Jars he knows,
And all their fond Conjunctions
How droping They but blow their Nose,
As Rhimes are his Emunctions.
His Last, he said, was a Foolish Lilt,
Himself, who ne're bely'd it
Much like ye Senseless Tap-hole jilt,
Had Geer but could not Guide it.
Or him yt. Starves his Wem, & Cracks
His empty Scull with Sneezing:
And overpacks his guilded Quacks,
In much less Gold, than Loozing.
Or light of dying Candle doup,
for want of Grease yt. Shrinketh;
Hangs loose, & hovers o're ye Smoke,
Flys off, is lost, and Stinketh.
Or Traytours up to Tyburn Slung,
Because they would be High ones;
Drop piecemeal down, are washt to Dung,
And whistling shake their Drybones.
If Bob & Ben shou'd joyn the Jew,
to canvas this your Barter,
What wou'd you do? I'd knit my Brow,
And Rhime them to their Halter.