Who is this scribbler, XYZ,
Who still writes on, though little read,
Whose falsehood, malice, envy, spite,
So often grin, yet seldom bite?
Say, Garrick, does he write for bread,
This friend of yours, this XYZ?
For pleasure sure, not bread — 'twere vain
To write for that he ne'er could gain:
No calls of nature to excuse him,
He deals in rancour to amuse him.
A man it seems — 'tis hard to say.
A woman then? A moment, pray —
Unknown as yet by sex or feature,
Suppose we try to guess the creature,
Whether a wit or a pretender,
Of masculine or female gender.

Some things it does may pass for either,
And some it does belong to neither.
It is so fibbing, slandering, spiteful,
In phrase so dainty, so delightful,
So fond of all it reads and writes,
So waggish when the maggot bites:
Such spleen, such wickedness and whim,
It must be a woman and a brim.
But then the learning and the Latin!
The ends of Horace come so pat in,
And wanting wit, it makes such shift
To fill up gaps with Pope and Swift,
As cunning housewives bait their traps,
And take their game with bits and scraps;
For playhouse critics, keen as mice,
Are ever greedy, never nice;
And rank abuse, like toasted cheese,
Will catch as many as you please.
In short, 'tis easily discerning,
By here and there a patch of learning,
The creature's male — say all we can,
It must be something like a man.
What, like a man from day to shrink,
And seek revenge with pen and ink?
On mischief bent his name conceal,
And like a toad in secret steal;
There swell with venom inward pent
Till out he crawls to give it vent.
Hate joined with fear will shun the light,
But hate and manhood fairly fight —
'Tis manhood's mark to face the foe,
And not in ambush give the blow.
The savage thus, less man than beast,
Upon his foe will fall and feast,
From bush or hole his arrows send,
To wound his prey, then tear and rend;
For fear and hatred in conjunction,
Make wretches that feel no compunction.

With colours flying, beat of drum,
Unlike to this see Churchill come.
And now like Hercules he stands,
Unmasked his face but armed his hands;
Alike prepared to write or drub,
This holds a pen, and that a club —
A club which nerves like his can wield,
And formed a wit like his to shield.
Mine is the Rosciad , mine, he cries;
Who says 'tis not I say he lies.
To falsehood and to fear a stranger,
Not one shall share my fame or danger.
Let those who write with fear or shame,
Those Craftsmen scribblers, hide their name.
My name is Churchill. Thus he spoke
And thrice he waved his knotted oak.
That done, he paused, prepared the blow,
Impartial bard, for friend and foe.
If such are manhood's feats and plan,
Poor XYZ will prove no man.
Nor male, nor female? Then, on oath,
We safely may pronounce it both.

What, of that wriggling, fribbling race,
The curse of nature and disgrace?
That mixture base, which fiends sent forth
To taint and vilify all worth;
Whose rancour knows nor bounds nor measure,
Feels every passion, tastes no pleasure;
The want of power all peace destroying,
For ever wishing, ne'er enjoying —
So smiling, smirking, soft in feature,
You'd swear it was the gentlest creature —
But touch its pride, the lady-fellow,
From sickly pale turns deadly yellow —
Male, female, vanish, fiends appear,
And all is malice, rage and fear.
What in the heart breeds all this evil,
Makes man on earth a very devil,
Corrupts the mind and tortures sense?
Malignity with impotence.

And fill the town with tittle-tattle —
To tell a secret such a bliss is —
Say for what cause these master-misses
To Garrick such a hatred bore
That long they wished to pinch him sore,
To bind the monster hand and foot
Like Gulliver in Lilliput,
With birchen twigs to flea his skin
And each to stick him with a pin?
Are things so delicate so fell?
Can cherubim be imps of hell?
Tell us how spite a scheme begot,
Who laid the eggs, who hatched the plot.
O sing in namby-pamby feet,
Like to the subject tripping neat.
Snatch every grace that fancy reaches;
Relate their passions, plottings, speeches.
You, when their Panfribblerium sat,
Saw 'em convened and heard their chat,
Saw all their wriggling, fuming, fretting,
Their nodding, frisking and curvetting;
Each minute saw their rage grow stronger
Till the dear things could hold no longer,
But out burst forth the dreadful vow,
To do a deed — but when, and how,
And where? O Muse, thy lyre new string,
The how, the when, the where to sing!
Say in what sign the sun had entered
When these sweet souls on plotting ventured.
'Twas when the balmy breath of May
Makes tender lambkins sport and play,
When tenderer fribbles walk, and dare
To gather nosegays in the air;
'Twas at that time of all the year
When flowers and butterflies appear,
When brooding warmth on nature lies,
And circulates the blood of flies;
Then fribbles were with fribbles leaguing,
And met for plotting and intriguing.

There is a place upon a hill,
Where cits of pleasure take their fill,
Where hautboys scream and fiddles squeak,
To sweat the ditto once a week;
Where joy of late, unmixed with noise
Of romping girls and drunken boys —
Where Decency, sweet maid, appeared,
And in her hand brought Johnny Beard.
'Twas here, for public rooms are free,
They met to plot and drink their tea.
Each on a satin stool was seated,
Which, nicely quilted, curtained, pleated,
Did all their various skill display:
Each worked his own to grace the day.
Above the rest and set apart,
A chair was placed, where curious art
With lace and fringe to honour meant
Him they should choose their President.
No longer now the kettle simmers,
The smoke ascends, or cotton glimmers;
The tea was done, the cups reversed.
Lord Trip began — " May I be cursed:
May this right hand grow brown and speckled,
This nose be pimpled, face be freckled,
May my sick monkey ne'er get up,
May my sweet Dido die in pup,
Nay, may I meet a worse disaster,
My finger cut and have no plaster,
No cordial drops when dead with vapour,
Be taken short and have no paper,
If I don't feel your wrongs and shame
With such a zeal for fribble fame —
So much my heart for vengeance thumps,
You see it raging through my jumps. "
Then opening wide his milk-white vest,
They saw it fluttering in its nest.
Some felt his heart, and some propose
Their drops, his lordship to compose.
The perturbation, all agree,
Was partly fidgets, partly tea.
While some the drops, some water get,
Sir Cock-a-doodle, baronet,
Arose — " Let not this accident
The business of the day prevent.
That Lord's my friend, my near relation,
But what's one lord to all our nation?
Friendship, to patriot eves, looks small,
And Cock-a-doodle feels for all.
Shall one, though great, engross your care,
While still unhonoured stands that chair?
Might I presume to name a creter
Formed for the place by art and nater,
I would a dainty wit propose
To serve our friends, destroy our foes;
To fill the chair so nicely fit,
His pride and passion match his wit.
Has wit has so much power and might,
It yields to nothing but his spite —
For wit may have its ebbs and flows,
But malice no abatement knows. "
" Propose! " they cried, " we trust in you —
Name him, Sir Cock-a-doodle — do. "
" Would you have one can joke and scribble,
Whose heart and very soul is fribble?
Would you have one can smile, be civil,
Yet all within a very devil —
Lay pretty schemes, like cobwebs spin 'em,
To catch your hated foe within 'em?
Let him a thousand times break through 'em,
The ingenious creter shall renew 'em.
If mischief is your wish and plan,
Let Fizgig, Fizgig, be the man.
What say, brethren, shall it be?
Has he your voice? " All cried " Oui, oui . "
At which one larger than the rest,
With visage sleek and swelling chest,
With stretched-out fingers and a thumb
Stuck to his hips, and jutting bum,
Rose up — all knew his smirking air —
They clapped and cried " The chair, the chair! "
He smiled and to the honoured seat
Paddled away with mincing feet.
So have I seen on dove-house top,
With cocked-up tail and swelling crop,
A pouting pigeon waddling run,
Shuffling, wriggling, noddling on.

Some minutes passed in forms and greeting —
Phil Whiffle oped the cause of meeting.

" In forty-eight, I well remember —
Twelve years or more, the month November —
May we no more such misery know —
Since Garrick made our sex a show,
And gave us up to such rude laughter
That few, 'twas said, could hold their water.
For he, that player, so mocked our motions,
Our dress, amusements, fancies, notions,
So lisped our words and minced our steps,
He made us pass for demi-reps.
Though wisely then we laughed it off,
We'll now return his wicked scoff.
Genteel revenge is ever slow,
The dear Italians poison so.
But how attack him — far or near?
In front, my friends, or in the rear? "
All started up at once to speak,
As if they felt some sudden tweak.
'Twas quick resentment caused the smart,
And pierced them in the tenderest part.
For these dear souls are like a spinnet,
Which has both sharp and sweet within it:
Press but the keys, up start the quills;
And thus perked up these Jack-my-Gills.
Each touching, brushing as they rose,
Together rustled all their clothes.
Thus when, all hushed, at Handel's air,
Sit, book in hand, the British fair,
A sudden whiz the ear receives,
When rustling, bustling, turn the leaves.

In all the dignity of form
The chairman rose to hush the storm,
To order called, and tried to frown —
As all got up, so all sat down.
Sir Diddle then he thus addressed:
" 'Tis yours to speak; be mute the rest. "
When thus the knight: " Can I dissemble,
Conceal my rage while thus I tremble?
O Fizgig, 'tis that Garrick's name
Now stops my voice and shakes my frame!
His pangs would please, his death — oh lud! —
Blood, Mr. Fizgig, blood, blood, blood! "
The thought, too mighty for his mind,
O'ercame his powers — he stared — grew blind —
Cold sweat his faded cheek o'erspread,
Like dew upon the lily's head.
He squeaked and sighed, no more could say
But " Blood, bloo-, blo-, " and died away.
Thus when in war a hero swoons,
With loss of blood or fear of wounds,
They bear him off — and thus they bore
Sir Diddle to the garden door,
Where sat Lord Trip, where stood for use
Salts, hartshorn, peppermint and eau-de-luce.

A pause ensued, at length began
The valiant captain, Pattypan.
With kimboed arm and tossing head
He bridled up — " Wear I this red?
Shall blood be named and I be dumb?
For that and that alone I come.
Glory's my call and blood my trade,
And thus " — then forth he drew his blade.
At once the whole assembly shrieks,
At once the roses quit their cheeks;
Each face o'ercast with deadly white,
Not paint itself could stand the fright.
The roof with " Order, order! " rings,
And all cry out " No naked things! "
The captain sheathed his wrath and pride
And stuck the bodkin by his side.

More soft, more gentle than a lamb,
The Reverend Mister Marjoram
Arose — but first with finger's tip
He pats the patch upon his lip,
Then o'er it glides his healing tongue,
And thus he said — or, rather, sung:
" Sure, 'tis the error of the moon.
What, fight a mimic, a buffoon?
In France he has the church's curse,
And England's church is ten times worse.
Have you not read the holy writ
Just published by a reverend wit,
That every actor is a thing,
A merry-andrew, paper king,
A puppet made of rags and wood,
The lowest son of earth, mere mud;
Mere public game, where'er you meet him,
And cobblers as they please may treat him;
Slave, coxcomb, venal, and what not,
Ten thousand names that I've forgot?
Then risk not thus a precious life
In such a low, unnat'rel strife,
And sure, to stab him would be cruel —
I vote for arsenic in his gruel. "

He said and smiled, then sunk with grace,
Licked the patched lip and wiped his face.
A buzz of rapture filled the room,
Like bees about a shrub in bloom.
All whispered round: " Was it not fine? "
" O very — very — 'twas divine! "
But soon as from the chair was seen
A waving hand and speaking mein,
A calm came on. The chairman bowed
And, smirking, spoke: " I'm pleased and proud
To mix my sentiments with yours —
'Tis prudence every point secures.
Two friends with rapture I have heard —
One favours arsenic, one the sword.
In both there's danger, but, succeeding,
Short pangs in poisoning, less in bleeding.
A sudden death's not worth a shilling —
I'd have our foe nine years a-killing. "
Then from his bosom forth he drew
A crow-quill pen — " Behold for you
And your revenge, this instrument.
From hell it came, to me 'twas sent.
Within is poison, sword and all,
Its point a dagger, dipped in gall.
Keen, lingering pangs the foe shall feel,
While clouds the hand that stabs conceal.
With this, while living, I'll dissect him,
Create his errors, then detect 'em;
Swell tiny faults to monstrous size,
Then point 'em out to purblind eyes;
Which, like Polonius, gaze in air
For ousel, camel, whale or bear.
His very merit I'll pervert,
And swear the ore is sand and dirt.
I know his quick and warm sensations,
And thence will work him more vexations.
Attended with some noisy cit,
Of strong belief but puny wit,
I'll take my seat, be rude and loud,
That each remark may reach the crowd.
At Lear we'll laugh, be hard as rocks,
And sit at Scrub like barbers' blocks.
When all is still we'll roar like thunder,
When all applause, be mute and wonder.
In this I boast uncommon merit —
I like, have praised, his genius, spirit;
His various powers, I own, divert me —
'Tis his success alone has hurt me.
My patriot hand like Brutus strikes,
And stabs and wounds where most it likes.
He, as a Roman, gave the blow;
I, as a fribble, stab your foe.
He mourned the deed, would not prevent it;
I'll do the deed, and then lament it. "
At this all tongues their hearts obey,
A burst of rapture forced its way —
Bravo! Bravissimo! Huzza!

All rose at once, then, hand in hand,
Each linked to each, the heroes stand,
Like fairies form a magic round,
Then yow — and tremble at the sound —
By all that's dear to human kind,
By every tie can fribbles bind,
They vow that with their latest breath
They'll stand by Fizgig, life or death.
The kiss goes round the parting friends,
The chair is left, the assembly ends.
Then each, his spirits to recruit,
For biscuits called and candied fruit,
And sipped, his fluttered nerves to heal,
Warm water, sack, and orange-peel.
Then, made as warm as warmth could make 'em,
All to their several homes betake 'em,
Save one, who, harrassed with the chair,
Remained at Hampstead for the air.

Now, Garrick, for the future know
Where most you have deserved a foe.
Can you their rage with justice blame?
To you they owe their public shame.
Though long they slept, they were not dead;
Their malice wakes in XYZ.
And now bursts forth their treasured gall
Through him, Cock Fribble of them all.