Classic Poem

Tune, To all ye Ladies

I.

From Me, Dear Charles , inspir'd with Ale ,
To Thee this Letter comes,
To try if Scribling can prevail
To moderate Our Dooms:
Tho' pent in Cage the Black-Bird swings,
Yet still he hops, and struts, and sings.
With a fa, la, la , &c.

II.

Perhaps you'll wonder why I chose,
At this unlucky Time,
So quit the loose and easy Prose,
To tie my Thoughts in Rhime:
For why, you'll say, since we're confin'd,
Should we lay Shackles on the Mind?
With a fa, la, la , &c.

III.

But since, tho' bound, on Barnet Tits,
So lately we astride,
Thro' hir'd Shouts of wide-mouth'd Cits,
Without a Rein could ride;
Sure Pegasus , without a Bit,
To pinion'd Poets may submit.
With a fa, la, la , &c.

IV.

But if the winged Steed should rear,
And start into a Freak,
We'll send for jolly Granadeer
To lead him by the Cheek.
Then We with Corded Arms may ride,
And sit, and think, and thump his Side.
With a fa, la, la , &c.

V.

For Pegasus , whilst he could soar,
No Poets ever made,
He flew Boetia o'er and o'er,
Until he turn'd a Jade;
His tired Hoos, then spurn'd the Rock,
And Heinan pursu'd the Stroke.
With a fa, la, la , &c.

VI.

So, when from Highgate-Hill I came,
In Triumph thro' the Town,
And jaded Palfrey, dull, and lame,
At Marshal 's set me down:
Without the Wings, he had the Heel;
Quince! Ale and B EER , and B EER and Ale !
With a fa, la, la , &c.

VII.

Thus, struting full of heavy Grout ,
With Brich and Flegm replete,
I send my Muse to find Thee out
At Newgate , or the Fleet ;
Such Eructations, sure demand
Some speedy Comfort from thy Hand.
With a fa, la, la , &c.

VIII.

For now, Dear Charles , (my Freedom gone)
This Prison seems my Wife ,
no Man see to aid my Moan,
Hear nought but Noise and Strife:
For (after all that can be said)
A Goal 's a Kind of being wed .
With a fa, la, la , &c.

IX.

Now I this Tale, to Thee, have told,
(Sure naught's a greater Curse)
That I this Goal, must H AVE and H OLD
For B ETTER and for W ORSE ;
Urge then, how bravely I shall quit
His Marriage N OOSE for T YBURN T WITT .
With a fa, la, la , &c.

X.

Nay, if Old Mopsa , who has lost
Her L OVE in Battle slain,
Should beg me from the Three-Leg'd Post,
To fix me to her Twain.
So long suspended! I should stand!
The Cart would drive — and I be hang'd!
With a fa, la, la , &c.