Is’t addresses you’re wanting? nay Honey you joke,
All addresses you know have been some time bespoke
They were all for the ladies, the rest for old Drury,
The new one, I mane, where they’re tried by a jury,
A set of poor spalpeens who rhyme, pun, and bother
And write all their flim-flams of one sort or another.
But Arrah! they’re not over bright in their learning,
And to judge other poets not over discarning,
For each stupid line they’d have praised to the sky,
Had their own dirty fingers been poked in the Pye.
There was cousin Fitz-Cracker most loyal of men
He’s a dab at a verse, so he snatched up a pen;
Faith, says he, at this subject I never can fail,
For it has like the Comet a rare fiery tail:
But long life to the Regent, his whiskers and wig!
My poor cousin Fitz might have whistled a jig!
And danced to’t himself ’till quite tir’d on’t my Honey
Before they’d have given my cousin the money!
My other relation, dear Doctor O’Brass
T’other day made a blunder for mounting an ass
He thought he was riding on Peg-like Apollo
And call’d on my young cousin Freddy to follow!
But wasn’t I there joy to see all the row?
And hear big Sir Raymond make Freddy a bow?
Hub-a-boo! with the noise all the timbers were quaking
Och! I laugh’d ’till the ribs in my body were breaking,
And they now cry out, “Paddy! We’re tir’d with aching!”