Classic Poem

Come, fair muse of Grub Street, the dialogue write,
Betwixt Captain Tom and a goodly old knight.
Quoth ancient Sir Harry, 'My dear Captain Thomas,
Sure you and your subjects will not depart from us.
Then hold hat and heart, and right hand every man up,
And bawl out old Colt, and brave General Stanhope.
Let the General's merits and mine be maintained:
Turn off the old brewer, and be not cross-grained.
In a protestant country, why are you for crosses?
And brewers will poison you all with molosses.
Besides, are not all the damned Jacobite brewers,
Still brewing of mischief, and so may be yours?
And papists are brewers, with faggots to burn us;
But if you love brewing, you may have a Furnese.
Then Stanhope shall send you each laurel he crops;
And laurels are sometimes as bitter as hops.'

When comely Sir Harry had thus shot his bolt,
Then replied Captain Tom, 'God-a-mercy, old Colt,
You had better have been at your spade and your club,
Than take up our time with a tale of a tub.
You shall be discarded, I say't to your face;
We'll all play the game, and not bate you an ace.
Then let me advise you no longer to stay;
But pack up and shuffle, and cut it away.
And though you have wit, youth, beauty, and parts,
While we keep our clubs, you shall ne'er win our hearts.
Brave Stanhope for fighting will have his reward,
And the Queen, when she pleases, can make him a lord.
But we are true friends of the church and Sacheverell;
And vote for a manager surely we never will!
Besides, we have found too much heat in some rulers,
And will give them a brewer, because they want coolers.
If Christians love crosses, why should they be blamed?
You shall see us bear ours, and not be ashamed.
But we know what you aim at; you all would engross,
And not leave the church or the nation a cross.'

When the Captain had finished, away went old Numps;
He had got a bad game, and could not turn up trumps.
His eggs they are addled, and dough was his cake;
So fairly he left them to brew as they bake.