The Bards & Their Doxeys
Dear Harry excuse me this whimsical letter
Tis in ryhme friend efeth but that makes it no better
& for loss of book gossip Ive made up a story
Of Bards & their doxies & lay it before ye
Tis hearty good will & not envy that pend it
A trifle to laugh at & not for offence meant
Each bard woos his muse & each muse sends a doxey
To indulge him in ryhme on the wages of proxey
For if the nine muses themselves fell to cooing
With every young poet that longs to be wooing
Theyd soon grow as common as facts may asure ye
As the doxeys residing in fleet street & Drury
& each one at least of these grecian bred lasses
Would have ten bards a day leaving cards at parrnassus
So thus every bard gets a miss for his hobby
So your lady Harry plays tricks in the lobby
While the dame of St Wordsworth would fall in a fit
If ye popt neath her nose aught indescent for wit
While Southys old nurse of a doxys so tame
& so fond of shoving her nose into fame
That shed een nurse a monkey to prove her self loyal
& sing him an ode if his title was royal
Theres Reynolds his doxy a lady of fun
Who fishes for laughter & catches a pun
& often plays frolic with Cocorans loves
Who are fond of black eyes & the punching with gloves
& tho not over done with the charms of the graces
Like them would as leave show their all as their faces
Theirs Cunninghams doxey tho stained with scotch morals
Will waid without stockings with mermaids for corals
& the doxy of Wilson but her titles got vague
For some few years ago she fell ill of the plague
& the antique old doxy of Sir Walter Scott
Went to waterloo fight with the scotch to be shot
But her spirit still haunting the ink in his quill
He joined her with Gordon at Halidon hill
Where she fled with the wounded & afterwards fell
As good luck would have it in St Ronans well
& theres the dark Turban browd doxy of Croley
Which he stole from the Turks by a traffic unholy
In pilfering the Koran — who soon as alowed
To join english Minstrels grew haughty & proud
& with Byrons rich doxey of dark pedigree
Claimed akin but the muses all scouted the plea
& made her presumption the title resign
So she sought France & fell by the famed gullotine
Eltons doxeys grows lean upon latin & greek
Being dosed with a dish every day in the week
While the doxy of Bowering sacks europe for songs
Like rumour possessing a leigon of tongues
& what is the doxy of little Tom Moor
When some call her angel & others a — —
But opinions are trifles & cant tho she cavils
Knows if saints lost their cloaks theyd be taken for d — — ls
Theres Cambell & Rogers whose doxeys are twins
Whose sinnings in ryhme are their greatest of sins
Theres the doxy of Townsend a lady in paint
Who affectedly caters for sinner & saint
Who gives songs & hymns for the rhyme smitten dandy
As a nurse gives a child when it whines sugar candy
Who sung waterloo where she " thrice slew the slain"
& destroyed poor Jerusalems Temple again
In numbers as sad as Isiah or Ezekiel
If not so inspired tho as luscious as treacle
Till the reader grows sick of his dish & retreats
Like the flye from the treacle pot smothered in sweets
Theres the monthly bards doxeys by scores they flock in
To my song like a gin shop as lovers of gin
Theres the doxy of Hood man the vilest of slatterns
Who pickt up her jokes as a tailor his patterns
From Cruikshanks the painter a pencil she hunted
From Pindar a pen but the point it was blunted
Then out she came bouncing a second hand Pindar
With cuts that shamed light from his booksellers window
Tho in flatterys Gazette she cut wonderful capers
& out shone Hunts Blacking in puffs in the papers
Twas all of no use tho it gulled the unwary
So now shes taen up with a Midsummer Fairy —
So you see all the doxeys of bards have their hobby
From mine in the bogs up to yours in the lobby
While mine is a mortal bred doxey you see
Good natured not saintish but open & free
She revels in satire & talks as she chuses
But is more kin to Adams good Eve then the muses
Being not very famous for talking sublime
& too over wheighted at seasons to climb
The steep hill of Fame for shed always as lieve
Be stealing of apples in eden with Eve
— — — — — — — — — —
— — — — — — — — — —
While I rail at each knave & each hypocrite saint
That preserve like stale dames their complexions in paint
& cheats good religion his friend or the muse
Dont believe that Im like an old bard of the blues
To scold every bard & his doxical dido
Because they sing better then you do or I do
No my wish is for those who hate humbug & canting
That fame & the muse may all favours be granting
& crown them all round with the bays of Parnassus
Nor for pegassus back share their hopes with an asses
But give them their wishes to do as they chuse
To drink with apollo & toy with a muse
To indulge in their fancys & sport with the graces
& feast on fine singing & beautiful faces
& those that love shakspear may they meet as good sack as
Old Falstaff below did & get drunk with bacchus
& if we prefer water when there to the bottle
We can sing with saint John friend & good Amos Cottle.
Tis in ryhme friend efeth but that makes it no better
& for loss of book gossip Ive made up a story
Of Bards & their doxies & lay it before ye
Tis hearty good will & not envy that pend it
A trifle to laugh at & not for offence meant
Each bard woos his muse & each muse sends a doxey
To indulge him in ryhme on the wages of proxey
For if the nine muses themselves fell to cooing
With every young poet that longs to be wooing
Theyd soon grow as common as facts may asure ye
As the doxeys residing in fleet street & Drury
& each one at least of these grecian bred lasses
Would have ten bards a day leaving cards at parrnassus
So thus every bard gets a miss for his hobby
So your lady Harry plays tricks in the lobby
While the dame of St Wordsworth would fall in a fit
If ye popt neath her nose aught indescent for wit
While Southys old nurse of a doxys so tame
& so fond of shoving her nose into fame
That shed een nurse a monkey to prove her self loyal
& sing him an ode if his title was royal
Theres Reynolds his doxy a lady of fun
Who fishes for laughter & catches a pun
& often plays frolic with Cocorans loves
Who are fond of black eyes & the punching with gloves
& tho not over done with the charms of the graces
Like them would as leave show their all as their faces
Theirs Cunninghams doxey tho stained with scotch morals
Will waid without stockings with mermaids for corals
& the doxy of Wilson but her titles got vague
For some few years ago she fell ill of the plague
& the antique old doxy of Sir Walter Scott
Went to waterloo fight with the scotch to be shot
But her spirit still haunting the ink in his quill
He joined her with Gordon at Halidon hill
Where she fled with the wounded & afterwards fell
As good luck would have it in St Ronans well
& theres the dark Turban browd doxy of Croley
Which he stole from the Turks by a traffic unholy
In pilfering the Koran — who soon as alowed
To join english Minstrels grew haughty & proud
& with Byrons rich doxey of dark pedigree
Claimed akin but the muses all scouted the plea
& made her presumption the title resign
So she sought France & fell by the famed gullotine
Eltons doxeys grows lean upon latin & greek
Being dosed with a dish every day in the week
While the doxy of Bowering sacks europe for songs
Like rumour possessing a leigon of tongues
& what is the doxy of little Tom Moor
When some call her angel & others a — —
But opinions are trifles & cant tho she cavils
Knows if saints lost their cloaks theyd be taken for d — — ls
Theres Cambell & Rogers whose doxeys are twins
Whose sinnings in ryhme are their greatest of sins
Theres the doxy of Townsend a lady in paint
Who affectedly caters for sinner & saint
Who gives songs & hymns for the rhyme smitten dandy
As a nurse gives a child when it whines sugar candy
Who sung waterloo where she " thrice slew the slain"
& destroyed poor Jerusalems Temple again
In numbers as sad as Isiah or Ezekiel
If not so inspired tho as luscious as treacle
Till the reader grows sick of his dish & retreats
Like the flye from the treacle pot smothered in sweets
Theres the monthly bards doxeys by scores they flock in
To my song like a gin shop as lovers of gin
Theres the doxy of Hood man the vilest of slatterns
Who pickt up her jokes as a tailor his patterns
From Cruikshanks the painter a pencil she hunted
From Pindar a pen but the point it was blunted
Then out she came bouncing a second hand Pindar
With cuts that shamed light from his booksellers window
Tho in flatterys Gazette she cut wonderful capers
& out shone Hunts Blacking in puffs in the papers
Twas all of no use tho it gulled the unwary
So now shes taen up with a Midsummer Fairy —
So you see all the doxeys of bards have their hobby
From mine in the bogs up to yours in the lobby
While mine is a mortal bred doxey you see
Good natured not saintish but open & free
She revels in satire & talks as she chuses
But is more kin to Adams good Eve then the muses
Being not very famous for talking sublime
& too over wheighted at seasons to climb
The steep hill of Fame for shed always as lieve
Be stealing of apples in eden with Eve
— — — — — — — — — —
— — — — — — — — — —
While I rail at each knave & each hypocrite saint
That preserve like stale dames their complexions in paint
& cheats good religion his friend or the muse
Dont believe that Im like an old bard of the blues
To scold every bard & his doxical dido
Because they sing better then you do or I do
No my wish is for those who hate humbug & canting
That fame & the muse may all favours be granting
& crown them all round with the bays of Parnassus
Nor for pegassus back share their hopes with an asses
But give them their wishes to do as they chuse
To drink with apollo & toy with a muse
To indulge in their fancys & sport with the graces
& feast on fine singing & beautiful faces
& those that love shakspear may they meet as good sack as
Old Falstaff below did & get drunk with bacchus
& if we prefer water when there to the bottle
We can sing with saint John friend & good Amos Cottle.
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