‘This ‘is’ a poem! This ‘is’ a copy of verses!’
YOUR mandate I got,
You may all go to pot;
Had your senses been right,
You’d have sent before night;
As I hope to be saved,
I put off being shaved;
For I could not make bold,
While the matter was cold,
To meddle in suds,
Or to put on my duds;
So tell Horneck and Nesbitt,
And Baker and his bit,
And Kauffmann beside,
And the Jessamy Bride,
With the rest of the crew,
The Reynoldses two,
Little Comedy’s face,
And the Captain in lace,
(By-the-bye you may tell him,
I have something to sell him;
Of use I insist,
When he comes to enlist.
Your worships must know
That a few days ago,
An order went out,
For the foot guards so stout
To wear tails in high taste,
Twelve inches at least:
Now I’ve got him a scale
To measure each tail,
To lengthen a short tail,
And a long one to curtail.) —
Yet how can I when vext,
Thus stray from my text?
Tell each other to rue
Your Devonshire crew,
For sending so late
To one of my state.
But ’tis Reynolds’s way
From wisdom to stray,
And Angelica’s whim
To be frolick like him,
But, alas! Your good worships, how could they be wiser,
When both have been spoil’d in to-day’s ‘Advertiser’?
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