VERSES TO THE HONOUR OF THE LONDON PASTRYCOOK, WHO MARKED NO POPERY" ON HIS PIES, &c. 66 I'LL sing the praise of Mr. B———— Whose Pastry, watchful for the Church, Whene'er it sees, or fears, a Plot, Starts from his counter, piping hot, To warn us of the dire intent, And, like himself, is eloquent. Pale Biscuits and stout Gingerbread Th' alarm of danger widely spread ; Fame shall desert th' ingenious Quaker To celebrate our Cross-bun Baker; Whose willing Pupils, apter far Than all the school of Lancaster, Shall read, and eat, his name enroll'd On Cakes of Gingerbread in gold. ON THE FUNERAL OF IN A HEARSE AND SIX, FOLLOWED BY A MOURNING COACH AND FOUR. WHAT, SAVE-ALL in a Hearse convey'd! And six brave Nags to draw the Dead! 'Tis ruin !-Why, 'tis more by five Than e'er convey'd him while alive. And look, what follows!-more and more Profusion, in a Coach and Four! Such waste of what thou liv'dst to save, Might break the quiet of thy Grave. In what slow pomp the Rogues advance, Courting, as 'twere, Extravagance! O! the vast charge of every night! They revel, and set nothing by 't; But give to have thee lie in state, More than thou e'er paid'st there for meat. What else?-their dead and useless load They carry on the Turnpike road, Paying-but they care nothing, they, How many Gates there be to pay.— Five pounds will soon be squander'd here. |