Classic Poem

Inscribed to the Right Honourable P HILIP Earl of Chesterfield.

Since good master Prior,
The Tar-water 'squire,
Without being counted to blame,
Vulgar patrons has scorn'd,
And his treatise adorn'd
With the lustre of C HESTERFIELD 's name.

Great Mecaenas of arts!
And of all men of parts,
(Tho' they're not much the growth of this time)
I hope 'twill be meet
To lay at your feet
The same lofty subject in rhyme.

Then come, let us sing!
Death, a fig for thy sting!
I think we shall serve thee a trick;
For the bishop of Cloyne
Has at last laid a mine,
That will blow up both Thee and Old Nick.

Have but faith in his treatise,
Tho' you've stone, diabetes,
Gout, or fever, tar-water's specifick;
If you're costive, 'twill work;
If you purge, 'tis a cork;
And, if old, it will make you prolifick.

All ye fair ones, who lie sick,
Leave off doctors and physick,
Tar-water will cure all your ails;
Have you rheums or defluctions,
Or whims, or obstructions,
It will set right your heads, and your tails.

See, each tall slender maid
Now lifts up her head,
Like a beautiful fir on the mountain!
While salubrious flow,
From a sissure below,
The streams of a turpentine fountain.

Each Nymph from afar
Is so scented with tar,
That, unless they're permitted to feel,
All the devils in hell
(So alike is the smell)
Can't know a — — from a cart-wheel.

Great physician of state!
(Tho' call'd in so late
To a truly well-meant consultation)
In this fever of war,
Like the spirit of tar,
Thy skill must preserve this poor nation.

Tho' now quite exhausted,
Her vitals all wasted,
She's as meagre, and weak as a lath;
Yet we hope, that thy art
Will recover each part,
Without the assistance of BATH.